Strength, Love, and Honour
by sphinx81
Summary: They arrive to the citadel, tithed to Roman whims like slaves. The rise and fall of Arthur and his knights. Prequel. WIP. Chapter 14 up: Through great troubles comes great strength.
1. Telling Tales

_My lefe is faren in a lond  
Alas! why is he so?  
And I am so sore bound  
I may nat com her to  
He hath my hert in hold,  
Where-ever he ride or go,  
With trew love a thousandfold.._

My love has left for a faraway land  
Alas! - why would he do this?  
and here I am so tied and bound  
I cannot go where he is  
so he holds my heart in his hands  
where ever he comes or goes  
and with my true love a thousandfold.

**_Away_**, Mediaeval English, 14th century

* * *

But I'm not tired yet, Da!"

"Neither am I!"

"I could eat a whole castle!"

"Do we _really_ have to go to bed?"

"Please? Just tell us the story one more time. We don't have any lessons tomorrow, so we can stay up."

The young man sighed as he sat down in the chair next to the bed, rubbing his temples. It _had _been a long day. God only knew how long tomorrow would turn out to be for the Solstice celebrations. And the children would definitely have to be up early for the lighting of the fires. But then again…

"_Please_, Da? I swear I won't tell Mother."

"She won't. I'll pound 'er something fierce if she does…"

"Psh! You know can't beat me yet! And you're a _boy_."

"Awful pathetic if you ask me…"

"Nobody asked you!" the dark haired boy snapped, crossing his arms, a pout quickly coming to his face. This only caused the older girl to roll her eyes in disgust. Reaching around behind the younger girl in the middle of bed, she smacked the boy on the back of the head, causing him to pitch forward.

"Hey, leave him alone!" the younger girl between them cried, quickly reaching to her left viciously pinching her older sister's arm.

"OUCH! But you just said…"

"Only _I_ can be mean to 'im."

"Trickster," the older girl muttered under her breath, blue eyes flashing with anger. Her younger sister tilted her head up in triumph, her own dark blue eyes flashing.

"I can still beat you," the younger boy muttered, shoving his sister in the shoulder.

"I doubt it," she replied. "You may be older than me, but I can still shove your face into the dirt!"

"Not for long, the boy replied with a huff, rolling his dark gray eyes in annoyance,

"Shut-up," she murmured, though a grin came to her face. Seeing she wasn't serious, the dark haired boy quickly grinned back, pulling her at her own dark locks.

"I hate you so much sometimes."

"You do not," she replied, smacking his arm as she leaned into him.

"You two are so odd," the older girl replied with a huff, though she pulled up the heavy blanket over all of them, making sure the other two were tucked in before she snuggled down. "If you both don't shut-up," she continued with a yawn, "Da won't tell the story,"

"What makes you think I'll tell you anything after that little display," he replied archly, though his dark gray eyes flashed with amusement as he arranged the last of blankets around the children. "Stories are for good children who go to sleep when their Da tells them, and who don't fight with each other at every turn."

"We don't fight…we…we…"

"You what?"

"We _discuss_,"

"You got that from your uncle, didn't you?"

The little boy nodded frantically.

"Damned Cadvan," their muttered under his breath. His wife's brother was pleasant enough, but he really had to stop filling his children's minds with these heroic concepts of fighting and attempting to kill each other in order to settle everything.

"So are you going to tell us a story or not?" the younger girl called out.

"Are you going to behave?"

"Maybe," she shrugged.

"Well, I guess it's settled then," the young man replied. Wearily running a hand through his inky black hair, he got up, moving towards the oil lamp sitting on the chest by the door. Lifting up the cross bar, he pushed open the door.

"W-wait, where are you going!" the older girl called out, suddenly sitting up in the bed.

"I can't tell stories to children who won't behave," her father countered, frown on his face, though his eyes were sparkling.

"We will act proper 'n everything, we swear!" she retorted. "Won't we?" she continued, the edge on her voice as she frowned at her sister.

"Yeah! We will, won't we?" she replied, kicking her brother's leg under the blankets.

"Nothing but the most honorable," the little boy replied, hand over his heart, kicking his sister right back.

Closing the rough wooden door, their father leaned back against it, arms crossed, squinting his eyes in concentration as he took each of them in. Finally he let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine, fine. I concede."

"You'll tell us the whole story, right?" the older girl demanded.

"The whole story! That's an awful lot to ask…"

"We'll be good!"

"Well…Fine, I shall," he replied making his way back to the chair at the foot of the bed. "But first," he continued, voice dropping to a whisper. "You must say the oath."

All three children quickly sat up straight, placing their hands over their hearts.

"I swear," they all solemnly intoned together, "_To never do outrage nor murder_," the older girl began.

"_Always to flee treason_," the younger girl continued.

"_To by no means be cruel but…to give mercy unto him who asks for mercy_," the yonger boy carried on.

"_To always do ladies, gentlewomen and widows succor_."

"_To never force ladies, gentlewomen or widows_."

"_And not to take up battles in wrongful quarrels for…love or worldly goods_," the boy finished.

"Good," their father replied, tucking them in again.

"It's just like the knights said," the boy said quietly.

"Yes," the older girl breathed. "They must have been so handsome," she continued with a sigh, snuggling into the pillows.

"Brave, too," the younger girl continued.

"Didn't they live here, at Caerleon?" the boy asked.

His father nodded. "Some say they did. But that was over three centuries years ago. No one really knows much anymore, especially after the three tyrants destroyed so much in the war."

"I hate tyrants," the older girl said, scrutching up her face in disgust.

"As you should," her father replied with a laugh, reaching out and tousling her hair.

"But you know the whole story right? No one knows except for you, right?" the little girl implored.

"Except for me," her father grinned, nodding his head. "Now, settle down, so we can start. And I had better not hear about how tired you in the morning. It is a _long_ story."

The children nodded, each twisting and turning to make themselves comfortable.

"Now," their father breathed as he leaned back in the chair. "There once was a woman. She was an old one, some say as old as time itself. Others thought it impossible, calling her 'heathen,' 'barbarian,' 'witch,' and 'heretic.' But do not worry; those who spoke of that proved not the most learned. They were scared and afraid, terrified of someone from so many leagues away, where they say the world ended, time stopped, the earth and sea and sky meeting to blend into one…

* * *

_Fall, 440 A.D._

"They are coming, father says. By nightfall or so."

"I see them, child."

"How? I cannot see a thing."

"My sight is far superior yours."

"Oh…"

"And the first thing you may see are those dust trails over there."

"Which means people are coming…"

"Why else would the dust be disturbed?"

"I see…"

"How could you not?"

"Because I am not wise like you?"

"No, because you are inexperienced. Wisdom, like experience, may be taught. You will learn in time."

The grey skies, streaked with orange and red colors of the swiftly setting sun, rumble above them as flares of lightning briefly illuminate the various figures of the caravan approaching below. As the chilling wind rends at the their clothes, causing them to billow and snake around them as they stand on the outermost wall of the stone ramparts, a few droplets of the coming rain fall almost on cue with the second roll of thunder. Within a few seconds, fingers of lightning illuminate the scene below again, showing the caravan making good time to its destination.

"Her Ladyship Cailleach Bheur will have her servants howling by tonight at the latest," the older woman murmurs, a half-smile on her lips, dark green eyes glittering with anticipation. Wrapping her red cloak tighter about her shoulders and pushing back her black hair streaked with the grey of age, she quickly places the child standing by her side in front of her, pulling her into the warmth of the velvet cloak. "Lady Bheur has taught her handmaidens Rain and Wind well," she continues, languidly stroking the child's head, fingers moving deftly through the inky black curls. "We've been needing the rain for a while. The season's been unusually dry."

"Aye," the child replies. "Da says there could be a drought if we're not careful."

"Nay," the woman sniffs. Closing her eyes, she lifted her head to sky, drinking in the sounds of thunder approaching yet again. Catching the scent of the moisture-ladden air, she nods, as though accepting to the situation at hand. After a few moments, she opens her eyes again, looking down, her lean face reflected in the watery blue eyes of the child.

"Your father has a right to be worried," she murmurs. "But be not afraid. The Goddess was simply late in bringing her gifts this season…"

"Late?"

"Late. There are other places that need her attentions as well. Contrary to the Roman belief, the empire is not the center of the universe."

"No, it is not," the child retorts.

"Just never tell _them_ that," the woman replies with a laugh.

Silence falls between them as another finger of lightening rips across the sky. The Roman soldiers standing at attention on either side of them groan in discomfort, quickly pulling their scarlet cloaks tighter against the churning wind. Grabbing their pikes again, they resume their positions, with the one on the left slightly leaning over the parapet to see if the caravan has finally approached the heavy iron doors of the citadel.

"I should be down there," he grumbles, deep brown eyes flashing with irritation as he nodds back to the open area of the inner citadel behind them.

"Getting drunk in some tavern?" the older woman quickly replies.

"Sounds about damn right, my Lady," he counters with a mirthless laugh. "No offense," he quickly adds, nodding.

"It takes much more than a mention of a good cup of mead to offend me, Gaius," she retorts, without malice. "I am not one of your shrinking Roman women."

"Much to Cossus' dismay," the man counters, though there's laughter creeping into his eyes. "He'd rather have the mistress of the Citadel be one of us. Hell, he rather have her be from the city of Rome herself," he spits, voice summarily becoming dour again.

It was a well known fact that Gaius Antonius could care less about who was more Roman than another. Though he was a Roman through and through, the tell-tale refined olive complexion and dark hair illustrating a bloodline hailing from Italia herself some generations ago, rumor had it that his distant grandsire, a Praetorian, had a direct hand in the murder of Emperor Valentinian. In retribution, his progeny was banned from Italia forever, purposely sent to Britannia to wither and extinguish itself. However, the Antonii line appeared quite vigorous; here they were still, almost a hundred years later, thriving on this grim, grey, rainy island province in the middle of the tempestuous sea. True, Gaius was not a particularly kind or agreeable sort of man, containing the same sense of entitlement and power the conquerors seemed only too proud to display in spades. But he was fair man, quickly learning through trial and error in the twelve years he'd been officially posted to Hadrian's Wall that it always proved best to trust a man (or woman frankly) based on his skills and loyalty, not what town or province he came from, especially true in this seemingly forsaken place.

"Well, I cannot choose who your commander convinces to marry," the older woman continues.

"I would not have it any other way, my Lady Ceridwen," he counters, grim smile making its way to his face again.

The other man on Ceridwen's right side chortles, his own similarly dark eyes lighting up as his usual cheeky grin falls into place

"Better not catch Cossus hear you say that. He'd rather have _The Witch_ exiled and Constinian recalled back to Rome to be properly punished."

"Trajan, I am surprised you have the balls to call me such," she smirks. "I may well have your head, you know."

"Psh! That's far too simple your cunning, my Lady."

"You are right. A lingering plague would be too good for you, especially if you keep calling me a supposed witch as that son of a whore does," she nods, eyes moving to the preenishly proud-looking portly soldier riding at the head of the approaching caravan. "Not that I worry myself over his trivial empty words," she continues, looking away from the scene below her. "Pagan. Barbarian. Witch. They are all the same to one so afraid of what he doesn't understand. Call me witch as you may."

"Everyone knows all women of the Orcades are such," Trajan shrugs. "How else do they have such knowledge of the healing ways, pagan devils," continues, letting out a deep rumble of a laugh, causing the child to smirk as well. "See how she smiles!" he continues. "Even this little one will be a witch, healer of the damned, seer of the world, worshipper of the sun and sea and wind and whatever in the hell you Caledonii of the North pray to," he continues, giving the little girl a quick wink as he deftly side steps the fierce swing of the her arm.

"If her path lies in it," Ceridwen shrugs. "She is of the Caledonii, via my daughter, yes, but she also has your inferior Roman blood in her veins by her father."

"'Inferior!' Why, I should report you to Cossus myself!" he chides, grin widening.

"Do that, you little dung heap, and I will kill you myself," Gaius counters sourly.

"And now this one jumps in?" Trajan replies, smile growing even wider. "Whatever will your husband say, my Lady? Gaius here seems a little too intent on defending your honor. Anything you would like to tell me about you two?" Trajan waggles his eyebrows.

"Tell Constinian whatever you wish," she shrugs. "He'll just wondering why you're wasting your Captain's time, and then he'll kill you, saving Gaius the trouble," she smirks.

"God knows killing my own brother wouldn't be too much trouble. Frankly, I'm surprised I haven't done it sooner," Gaius grumbles.

"Oh, but who would be here to cheer up your grumpy self, little one?"

"Shut-up."

Gauis tries to suppress the half smile creeping onto his face but seems to be failing so far.

"They…they will be sleepy," the child says to no one in particular after a few moments of silence, she herself doing her best to stifle a yawn. It was her own fault really. But she can not help it. It rare that they ever see the spectacle of a new group of knights coming to be trained, and she had insisted on staying out to see them despite her early rising that morning. She can barely remember the last group that came two seasons ago. It did not matter anyway considering they had trained here only to promptly be shipped out further South only a few weeks ago.

Her Da had told her of the rumors that the empire was falling, which is why that group of knights moved South rather than staying at this distant outpost, which had been free of the Pict attacks so far this season. Whether or not they would be back before their "fifteen years of slavery" as her Da put it was yet to be seen. It was not that he hated the empire per say; rather the bureaucracy and blatant general disregard for their lives so far away served no purpose for him. But who was to blame him? His stepfather, one of the great Sarmatian knights of the old generation, had raised him from almost birth despite his dead Roman birth father hailing from Gallia. Remaining with his Roman mother (also of Gallia) despite the laws against such a marriage, he'd finally made her an honest woman almost immediately after his service was up. In turn, he loved her Da like his own son, despite the fact that he had no known children of his own.

"To say the least," her grandmother continues.

"How far is Sir…Sir…Sirmetuh?"

"Sarmatia, Maeve. It lies many leagues away, to the furthest east on the continent, most likely further than you have ever traveled in your six summers upon this earth," the older woman replies in quiet, clipped tones. To any one else, she would sound rather irritated, if not outright exasperated. But for the child, her usual tone of apathetic efficiency proves a relief. It's one of the few constants she'd come to appreciate. The gods only know life never remains constant at the Wall. Despite this, nana has always proven ready and capable to solve whatever misfortune Fortune seemed content to toss out to her unsuspecting pawns. Whether it's the wounds of the weary, the sickness of the unfortunate, or the disputes of the fiery ones, her word is final, her actions without doubt, her mind keen with the insights of the Goddess. Such is her gift, the result of her upbringing on the far Northern islands of Orcades. Located in the Great Cold Sea far beyond the plains of Caledonia north of the wall, some said it is the very edge land life itself, caught in the veil between the worlds of the living and dead.

"Some have come as far away as a three month's ride, assuming they were making good time. But these Romans," Ceridwen snorts "They are no horseman like their charges, so who is to say how long they could have taken…child, are you cold?" the woman continues without break, noticing how the black-haired girl shivers into her cloak. Looking down, the woman's quick eyes sparkle in the waning light of afternoon, hastily taking inventory of the child leaning into her.

"No," the girl lies.

"Run down and get my cloak from my quarters. The ermine-lined one."

"But…"

"No questions. You've already been ill earlier this season and I will not have it returning, Maeve. Now go," she continues, swiftly pushing the girl from her cloak.

Gauis sniffs, eyes watering as another buffet of the cold wind whips about them.

"Gaius will accompany you," Ceridwen instructs seeing that the soldier also needs another cloak and that this would give him a chance to stop by his quarters. "Do not worry, it will be a while before they arrive. They say Uther's son is among them, so be sure to return," Ceridwen instructs.

Giving a nod of affirmation, Gaius gives a small sigh of relief as he quickly makes his way down the worn gray stones of the turret to the grounds four levels below them.

"Don't doddle, girl!" he gruffly tosses out behind him though he reaches out a hand. Running up beside him, Maeve takes it and he sweeps her into his arms.

"Oof! You're getting to be a fat 'un, eh?" he brusquely says, readjusting his position and tossing her onto his back so her arms wrap around his neck and her legs grab 'round his middle. "Better let my Glendoae take care of that, huh? She can't cook to save 'er life!" he snorts, causing the girl to smile.

"Aye, you could always take a joke, couldn't ya?" he grunts, looking back at her, though his mouth twists into a slight grin.

"Alrighty then, off we go. This god-damned weather is colder than a whore's tit in winter!...but don't go repeating that to your grandmum, aye?" She giggles in his ear, nodding her head.

"That's a good 'un," he murmurs, stifling a chuckle. Making their way to the stone barracks, they split up to their respective quarters, taking their time to return to the wall.


	2. Journey to the Citadel

"By the bloody moon and sun and however many days we been bleedin' ridin' to this accursed place, I'm damned tired!"

"Your mother would box your ears if she heard that dirty little mouth 'o yours. And it has been 137 days."

"How long!"

"Four and one-half months by their count."

"_WHAT!_"

"_One hundred and thirty-seven days_."

"By all that's unholy…!"

"We shall be there soon, I swear it."

The older man quickly reaches out, his arm swiftly steadying the increasingly slumping stout form of the younger man beside him. As though on cue, the younger man's grey horse almost comes to a halt, ensuring his charge does not pitch forward and topple off the large animal, only to be run over by the swiftly moving caravan.

"There, there, Aravind," the older one murmurs, reaching over and reassuringly patting the grey stallion's neck. The horse nuzzles his hand in turn, bowing slightly in salute as he recovers his original pace.

"Here, take this," he murmurs, tearing off a large chunk of the loaf of coarse brown bread sitting in his saddle bag and handing it off the other young one. Passing a large wine skin over as well after taking a sip of the sweet tasting liquor himself, he looks up at the sounds of the rumbling thunder, catching sight of the white slashes of lightening snapping across the gray canvas of the sky.

"This place is goin' to be too damn cold, I can feel it all damn ready," the younger man says, a pout on his lips as he takes another long swig from the skin, stuffing the last of the bread in his mouth. Snatching a tough bit of dried meat from his own saddle bag, he snaps it half, passing it to his companion as he says, "I wanna go home. _Now_."

"Can't," the older one chuckles, mouth full.

"We could take 'em!" the younger one retorts, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just slash the fat soldier's throat and the rest 'o these cowards would give up like that, the pompous bastards!"

"And where we would go after we kill the Pontifex Maximus, Cossus? Assuming the rest of the legion doesn't crucify us and all the other knights on the spot for mutiny?"

"Away! Just keep riddin' 'till we get to the coast. Get passage on that infernal ship and sail on 'ome."

"And how would we pay for passage, little one?"

The younger one snorts derisively, casting a particularly ferocious sideways glare at his companion. He damn well knows he didn't like being called 'little one.' Unforgivable! And too much like his own damn family. He's always hated being the baby out of five older sisters…though he wouldn't mind all cooing and constant deluge of disgustingly girlish things they seem to love doing all the time right about now. In fact, he'd even put up with being called 'little one,' if it meant he never had to come to this vile, washed out place.

Blinking rapidly, he wills himself to push back the tears, bitterness setting in again.

"…I don't…just walk…ehrm…sneak on the damned ship!"

"Just that easy?"

"I said 'sneak,' you son of a whore!"

"That 'whore' is your mother's sister."

"Well…you're just a…tub of bloody guts!"

"Well done!"

"I should cut yer throat right 'ere!"

"I'd like to see you try," the older one replies with a chuckle. "So, after, we steal passage on this ship, which carries a sentence of losing an ear, what then? Since we'll have to leave the horses behind on account of not bein' able to afford their ferrying on another ship, what then?"

"We…just…steal some more horses!"

"Another death sentence. Or losing a hand at minimum. But we won't get caught since we'll sneak through, right?"

"Right!" the younger one retorts, head held high with pride at his foolproof plan.

"So then do we ride, or walk to get back home? Foreigners in a strange land, fugitives from Roman law for mutiny and murdering a high Roman Commander. Not to mention we have no clue of how to head back considering we haven't been there in 3 years…"

"Head East, you dimwit!"

"Of course. Granted you've haven't been back for four months and I haven't for the better part of 3 seasons or so. And no one will be looking for two big Sarmatians anyway?"

"No! The empire's falling apart! You've heard the whispers."

"Of course it is. That's why we're here now…"

"I bloody hate you!"

"Of course you do!" the older one chuckles again. His companion shoots him a murderous glare, finding himself unable to say anything. Sitting lower in his saddle, mumbling a string of curses in his native tongue that would cause your average seasoned whore to blush, he finds himself seriously contemplating his companion's demise.

"I'm still bloody damn cold!" he hears himself grumble some minutes later.

"You've got on more furs on than the rest of us combined! Not to mention that silly wrap 'bout your head!"

"Doesn't make it any damn better!"

"Surprising, considering you've finished off half the wine already," the older one says, snatching away the skin and corking it.

"If you don't shut-up, I'll tell Cossus you stole one of his best wines," the younger one blusters, though he smacks his lips to get the last of the lingering taste of the honey-flavored drink.

"He'd never believe you. Thinks I'm too big and stupid to be so quiet to sneak past his sentries to his vittle stores."

"You did, did you, yeah? How'd you get to be so quiet on those ogre feet of yours all t'sudden?"

The older one shrugs nonchalantly, a smile creeping onto his face.

"The black-haired one with the braids and the ruddy eagle tattoo on the inside of his wrist, yeah?" he replies, nodding to the tall, lanky man on the white charger ahead of them. "That one from the far-off East taught me,"

"Him? He's…odd."

"Not any more than the rest of us."

"Didn't even know he talked. Just sits there and stares at you, like this." The younger one leans forward in his saddle, puffing up his cheeks, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes in a look of mock concentration. "Don't think he sleeps either. Just sits there, all silent and quiet like. It's strange, just so, I don't know, animal. Hell, Cossus hates 'im something fierce. Always makin' him do sentry duty. But he seems to like it, ya know?" he continues, waggling his eyebrows in an attempt to stifle an uneasy laugh. As eerie as the Eastern man is, it still makes him laugh just picturing the terrified look on the mean Roman's fat face whenever he gathers up the courage to even speak to the apparently mute Easterner.

"He's just quiet 'til you get to know him."

"Yeah, and I'm the emperor's son, Dag."

"Sure you are, Bors. Sure you are," he replies, lightly cuffing him on the ear with a laugh and quickly riding ahead to avoid retaliation

"Old man," the younger one mutters, slumping in his saddle once more.

"Oi! Look out there, you wouldna wanna go fallin' from a fine creature like that, eh?" a cheery voice yells out after a while, the sound of hooves echoing in Bors' ears. The Roman soldiers in from of him swing about in their saddles, glaring at the owner of the voice, only causing him to shoot a bright smile right back at them. Almost simultaneously rolling their eyes in complete contempt, they turn away, focusing their attention on the road ahead.

"Go 'way, or I'll sick Dag on ya."

"Ah, don't whine. It's unbecoming on you."

"What do you care!"

"I don't. I just don't like looking at ugly things. And as far as you go, you don't need anything else ugling you up any further."

"I should break your neck…"

"Nah, ya won't."

"Why?"

"Because ya like me. Everyone does. I'm that charming. Hell, even that fat git Cossus can't help looking at me."

"He just wants yer ass, Gaheris," Bors replied, rolling his eyes.

"Could you blame a man?" he replied with a steady chuckle, his round, tanned face turning red, dark green eyes sparkling in the waning sunlight. Running his slim fingers through the golden hairs that have escaped his braid, he sits up straighter in his saddle, the black charger snorting proudly as he pulls it into a fancy gait.

"I will blame _you_ when we hear you screaming out for your mama behind some bush as he takes what he'll think is rightfully his, showoff."

"Nah, he wouldn't."

Bors snorts in disbelief. "Of course, because he loves you so much, he'll be all slow 'n gentle-like as he pounds your fat as…"

"My, such words. Dagonet will be disappointed."

"Shut-up."

"I would like to, but you're so fascinating to talk to, my man!"

"I'm not yer man." Bors snaps.

" 'Tis ashame. I'd think poor Dag would get tired of you."

"Quite a surprise your brothers aren't tired of _you_."

"How could they be? Hundreds of 'o leagues we've traversed, you've got to provide entertainment of some sort."

"'Tis what the taverns are for."

"All find and dandy if you're got the money, which most of us don't."

"Thanks for reminding me!" Bors mutters. After a while, he looks up again, seeing the citadel in front of them finally seems to be closer.

"Shouldn't you be watching them?" Bors asks, breaking the silence, voice softening as he took in the sight of the rest of that group. Just to his side, he can just make out through the increasingly dense grey mist Gawain asleep in his saddle, his usually stout and straight form almost completely hunched over. Ahead of him rides Agravaine, slouched and muttering to himself in his usual strange way that no one has really quite become used to.

"They'll be fine," Gaheris says after a while with a casual wave of his hand. "Just tired, 'tis all. Most of them being so young and such. Too young, frankly."

"Except for Agravaine."

"Yes," Gaheris replies quickly. "Who can forget Agravaine?" he adds as almost an afterthought.

Suddenly, Agravaine snaps out his ramblings, head turning swiftly in their direction as though he's heard them, though it would be impossible considering his distance from them. Almost unnaturally pale gray eyes narrowing in suspicion, he glares at them both, a sneer quickly making its way his face, contorting his oddly smooth and young looking features into a mask of hatred. Bors blanches slightly while Gaehris simply snorts and grins, easily holding his older brother's unnervingly feral gaze. After a while, he tips his cap to him, causing Agravaine to look away, immediately falling back into his ramblings.

"Uh…is he well?"

"No. And yes. But aren't we all a little mad, my man?"

"No."

"Aye, we are. Some of us are just more likely to admit it."

"Like you."

"Oh, a hit! You are improving, Bors."

"Erhm, thanks?"

"Of course," Gaheris replies, grin slipping back into place. Glancing back to Agravaine, he inwardly breathes a sigh of relief as another horse approaches. At least it looks like his brother had finally made at least one friend.

Friendship proves the last thing on Agravaine's mind as he lightly spurs his chestnut brown charger on. The large animal snorts in what surely must be derision, refusing to increase its pace, leaving its rider to sigh in defeat. There's no point it anyway; for no matter how many times he looks up, the stone walls of the citadel seem the same distance away. Cursing to himself in his native tongue, he reverts back to quietly reciting as many lines of the old stories his father had used to lull them to sleep him night after night as they huddled together in their tent on the windswept steppes. It keeps his mind from focusing on the utter dreadfulness of trip so far. And most importantly, it helps him to remember; from the start, he has vowed to never forget his village, where he came from, the tales and legends of his once proud people. By the gods, his people are _still_ proud, better than these damn Romans, too weak to use their own inferior cavalries for their dirty work. They can break his body, ridicule his obstinacy, call him mad, attempt to assuage him with false ideas of "civilization," and whatever else they have up their decidedly unworn sleeves. He'll never budge, never become one of the so called "Romanized" and "enlightened." Let them think he's insane; it keeps the accursed Romans away from him, scared for their pathetic little lives, and forces only the best of his fellow lot to attempt to engage him. Besides, everybody knows dying alone proves far better than mixing yourself up in some false sense of utterly useless brotherhood.

"And they say misery does not love company."

"Watch yourself, young pup. I'm liable to cut your tongue out. Or haven't you been listening to our Roman brethren?"

"I am insulted!"

"When are you not?"

"When are you not mumbling to yourself, trying to convince everyone you're certifiably insane?"

"You assume much."

"I only assume what you want the others to think. There's only so much wool you can pull over _my_ eyes."

"I'd like to pull a noose over your neck…"

"But you won't."

"Why not!"

"Because you need me. You find me amusing despite your best efforts at this supposed play of madness," the younger man replies with a self-satisfied smile.

Agravaine rolls his eyes at the petty exchange. Don't they get it? He has no desire to waste his time with anyone, let alone this _Iazyge_ of the South. Completely ignoring the other man, he spurs his horse forward, shocked to find it actually responding. Unfortunately, this does not stop the other one from doing the same.

"Come now, Agravaine, do not be short with me," the dark eyed knight says, an exaggerated look of offense on his face. "I simply wish not to see my friend so…out of sorts."

"Your _friend! _As though you care, Lancelot."

"You would be surprised," he replies, voice dropping and becoming serious. "But do not worry, we're almost there," he nods happily to the citadel, its stone walls coming up fast on account of his horse's steadily increasing gallop.

"And that will make it all better, yes?" Agravaine replies harshly. "It will only mean the beginning of the end."

"Well, at least the beginning starts with a warm bed a bit of food and what will hopefully be a large company of some rather attractive maids," the young man replies, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. This causes a slight, if feral grin to come to his companion's face as he shakes his head.

"How many seasons do you have to your insipid little life?"

"Fifteen or so, so they say," Lancelot replies.

"So how do you even know what to _do_ with said maids?" Agravaine asks in barely hidden disbelief.

"Older cousins do talk," Lancelot replies unsteadily, his cheeks beginning to redden. Seeing the man's reaction, Agravaine's mouth twists into a full smile, causing his grey eyes to light up, significantly changing his whole face and making it almost unnervingly handsome. "I see. 'Tis simply all bluster," he replies matter-of-factly, giving Lancelot a derisive once over. "You're but a mere babe," he continues, voice suddenly sounding distant, if not a bit distressing.

"Aye, but what does it matter?" Lancelot replies after a while, perking up and spurring on his horse, causing Agravaine to do the same. "I will certainly be younger than you by the time this is all done, old man!" he calls out behind him. Agravaine rolls his eyes again, but does not hesitate to catch up. Granted, he's found himself unable to stop the young pup from shadowing his every move for the last few seasons, so there's no point in losing him now. _He's liable to get himself killed with that mouth of his_, he thinks. _Not that I'm concerned_, he quickly reminds himself. After all, he's a madman, there for the warm beds and wanton wenches.

* * *

_Iazyge_ – There were probably four tribes of Sarmatians. The _Iazyges_ lived in the south, on the shores of the Sea of Azov, with the _Roxolani_ were moving to the west. The _Urgi_ lived in the north on the banks of the Dnepr, in the neighborhood of modern Kiev. There was also an ancient Scythian tribe, the _Royal Scythians_, a few of which still lived in the east of Ukraine by early Roman times. However, most of them eventually became allies with and were absorbed into the Sarmatian _Urgi_. 


	3. Introductions

_My laughter is over, my step loses lightness,  
old countryside measures steal soft on my ears;  
I only remember the past and its brightness,  
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.  
From out of the shadows their loving looks greet me,  
and wistfully searching the leafy green dome,  
I find other faces fond bending to greet me,  
the ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home._

**_-The Ash Grove_, **Traditional Welsh

* * *

"Alright you slags, off yer horses!_ Now!_" the burly man snaps, causing the group of older boys and young men in the inner court of the citadel to quickly dismount in the sprinkling rain as another string of lightening slashes across the sky. The oldest of the group, Dagonet and Tristan, dismount as well, though they quickly lead their horses to their respective the stables rather than staying there in the crowded yard. Dagonet, casting a truly sympathetic look to Bors, suddenly feels the younger man's fingernails digging into his arm, almost breaking the skin.

"Where you off to, cousin!" he whispers frantically, being sure not to catch the attention of the yelling, brawny man who is now berating one of the new knights, a black haired, green eyed, slim young man who has apparently seen fit not to dismount in a timely enough manner.

"I've other things to do. Been here for three seasons, along with Tristan…"

"The odd Easterner?"

"Yes. I've got to go wipe down Heras here," Dagonet coos to his mount, patting his horse's flank. "And attend to my duties. You'll be fine," he continues, patting Bors on the shoulder reassuredly. "It will a take a fortnight or so, but you've got a good head on your shoulders and sixteen seasons to you. You'll fall in line…"

"Do you see him!" Bors mutters, voice just on the verge of panic, hand gripping Dagonet's arm like a vice as his eyes dart to the scene across the cobblestoned yard. By now, the slow dismounter is splayed on the ground on his backside, stone-faced but steadfastly blinking back tears as the man bellows at him, prodding his chest with his finger. The others stand around, eyes cast downward, completely unsure of what to do, save for Agravaine, who's slowly creeping over to stand behind the young man on the receiving end of the tirade.

"Him?" Dagonet questions as Bors arches an eyebrow in utter disbelief at the scene before them. "Oh, that is Lot," Dagonet replies, casually taking it all in. By now, Agravaine is hastily dragging the black haired young man to his feet, for Lot has moved on to Gaheris. Wearing a look of amused detachment as the commander roars at him, Gaheris wipes his face with the back of his hand from the spittle flying from Lot's mouth. He shrugs his shoulders after a while, though the look on his face has devolved into one of sobering shock.

"Don't worry about him," Dagonet continues. "He's a prickly one, yeah, but he knows what's what."

"Or so he says," Tristan drawls behind Bors, causing him to jump.

"How in the name of the gods do you keep doing that!" Bors starts, spinning around to face the older knight who has soundlessly made his way to them.

"Practice," Tristan shrugs, tugging the reins of his horse, patting the animal's neck to calm him down. "Besides, I enjoy seeing you lasses jump whenever I appear out of the fog," he continues, a shadow of a grin coming to his face.

"Go to hell," Bors mutters.

"I'll see you there," Tristan replies steadily with a nod, leading his horse to the stables and nodding to Dagonet in goodbye.

"I've got to go, Bors," Dagonet says suddenly. "You will be alright…"

"No I won't!" Bors retorts frantically, voice rising.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yeah…"

"Then trust me when I say you be fine, Aye?"

"B-but…"

"Don't fret," Dagonet says with a sigh, squeezing Bor's shoulder and stepping away.

"I hate this!" Bors calls out to his older cousin's retreating figure.

"Ah, and the fat 'un has something to say!" he hears Lot bellow behind him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.

"By the Gods!" Bors mutters, shutting his eyes tight and then turning around to face his tormentor, eyes popping back open and the sound of Lot's bellows envelope him. It is going to be a long day.

* * *

Watching the scene before him, Constinian glances around the courtyard, his round, age-lined face impassive, flinty grey eyes taking quick inventory of the twenty or so Sarmatians standing about. Between him and the Sarmatians stand one hundred or so Roman soldiers in full dress uniform, all at unflinching attention, their spears in their right hand and their rectangular Roman shields in the left. Milling about around the edges of the entire group are the older Sarmatians already stationed at wall, impassively watching the newly arrived ones and all but ignoring the Roman troops. Taking into account the hundred or so other Roman troops and knights attending to other duties throughout the fort, there are roughly 300 troops stationed at this citadel. Along the length of the wall, combining all the citadels, Roman strength in Britain numbers 2800 or so.

Constinian continues surveying the scene before him, immediately observing how one of the new knights has helped the black-haired boy back to his feet, at once shoving the younger man behind him to avoid the renewed attention of Lot, his Sarmatian _Praefectus Castrorum_ or Knight-at-arms. _At least there seems to be some sort of honor among this set_, he thinks to himself, filing away the action of the young knight for future use as he keeps his thin lips from curling into an obvious grin. He's gained a rather satisfactory reputation for never forgetting any person, incident or thing he's ever found important enough to remember. But no less is to be expected as Captain. It is, after all, how he moved into the duty as commander of the largest post along the Hadrian's Wall.

"At least they're a bit older this time 'round," his wife sniffs beside him, her intense blue eyes taking note of what he's seen as well. "Hopefully that will lead to less crying in night and such," she continues, voice softening slightly.

"We can only pray for that, Ceridwen," Constinian replies evenly, lightly polishing his breastplate one last time with his deep red cloak. Turning to face her, he grunts in appreciation as Ceridwen's deft fingers quickly move along the clean lines of the Roman legionnaire uniform, tightening various strings and lacings, readjusting assorted folds of cloth. After she gives a curt nod signaling she is done, he quickly reaches down, his large calloused hand covering hers.

"What would I do without you?" he murmurs, leaning in so that she may readjust the brown leather strap of his helmet under his chin, her fingers lingering along his grey-whiskered face as she looks up at him. She is a relatively tall woman, but Constinian still all but towers over her. He is not a portly man, but rather simply large, muscles toned from twenty-plus years of time as a captain of the Britannian Legion.

"Look like a sloppy pig, that's what," she replies with a slight grin. "You've been living with us barbarians for far too long," she chides, tucking a few strands of his brown, heavily grey-streaked hair further into the ornately gilded helmet. "Don't you know that true Romans keep their hair short and to the point, much like themselves?"

"Considering I've yet to visit that magnificent city, no," he counters evenly, though a slight sparkle comes to his eye. She pulls away from him, nodding after giving him a final once-over.

"Neat as pin," she says. "Play fair," she murmurs as he turns to away.

"I always do," he replies, the sea of one hundred or so Roman soldiers in front of them parting as he makes his way to the group of the newly arrived Sarmatians, his sizable form belying the quickness with which he moves.

"'Tis enough, Lot," Constinian intones evenly, coming to a stop, his hands held behind his back as Lot swiftly turns around. Narrowing his coal-black eyes, Lot quickly ends his tirade upon seeing who addresses him, the knight swiftly standing at attention as Constinian begins walking up and down the group of young men. They stand there, some shocked, some smirking, some resolute, but all silent, seeing how the Roman commander gives each of them a once over.

"I see you that you have all met my Praefectus Castrorum?" Constinian says quietly, though his voice is easily heard by each of them, its easy dignity rolling over them and bringing some strange sense of comfort. "Believe it or not, he is one of you, arriving here some twenty seasons ago. Apparently he has seen fit to stay, much to the chagrin of those he now trains." His words are met with silence, save a quick guffaw from one of the young men. The man immediately regrets his action, bringing his hand over his mouth, eyes widening in disbelief at what he's done as Constinian strolls towards him.

"You find this amusing, knight?" the captain asks evenly, coming to a stop in front of the tall, rather sizable Sarmatian. The young man's dark eyes widen, his freckled ruddy cheeks going red as he quickly pushes strands of his blonde hair back from his face. Quickly coming to stand at attention, his eyes focused on a spot just to left of the captain's head, he answers, "No, I do not. Forgive me, my lord."

Constinian's eyes flit over him, noticing his particularly ragged clothes and the way he is using all his efforts to keep from shivering in the increasingly chilly wind. "Forgiveness is not mine to give, knight," he replies. "Your name?"

"Calogrenant, my lord. My father served here…"

"I only asked your name. I could care less about your history."

"I apologize, my lord."

"Well, at least you know some sense of protocol, eh? But you seem not to know how to give only what you are asked for. You have much to learn. So you may begin with stable duty tonight before you turn in. Dagonet will show you what to do." Calogrenant does not react, remaining still at Constinian's words. Turning on his heal and stepping away, a slight grin comes to the captain's face as he sees the young knight's apparent steadiness.

"You may think that duty assigned to that man may not fit his infraction," he calls out, making his way back to the front of the group. "But your duty is not to think. It is to serve. Serve Rome, and most importantly, serve me. I am Constinian Flavian Heranus, of the gens Heranii. As such, I am the _Legatus Legionis_ of this, Aelia Citdel. It is the largest and most illustrious citadel and outpost along this wall. And since you will be serving here, you are expected to be most illustrious company in Britannia." The courtyard remains silent as Constinian continues.

"I know that in the three years many of you have been serving, this is as far north as you have been. But you will find the rules here, on the very edge of the empire, are just as stringent as those from wherever you have come from, which is why I do not know why you are not standing in formation as your Legatus Legionis addresses you…"

Suddenly, there's scrambling as the young knights attempt to line up, quickly moving to get in some sense of an ordered formation.

"And why you're bothering now," Constinian continues, "I know not, considering your penalty has already been determined. Praefectus Castrorum?

"Half rations for tonight!" Lot barks out. Some of the knights groan, but immediately fall silent at the look of pure malevolence Lot casts their way.

"As you can see," Constinian continues without pause. "Discipline is held in just as high regard here as elsewhere. And as I said, your duty is not to think, but to serve. Now, if it is found that any of you have any sense of judgment, then you may learn to think, thus going far in this company. It is a rarity, but surprisingly, sometimes it happens."

"In the meantime, while I am your decisive commanding officer, fortunately I will not see much of you. You will answer directly to the Praefectus Castrorum, Lot, who will further train you to ensure you do not waste your rather valuable life and end up on the sharp end of some barbarian's sword or with a barbed arrow in your back," Lot gives a curt nod, immediately going back to attention as Constinian goes on.

"You in turn answer to the _Tribunus Laticlavius_, Ectorian. Since you will be found wanting, he will train you in the art of strategy and governance, his son, Caius taking on the role as well since the young whelp proves still in training like the lot of you."

With that, a rotund older Roman soldier along with a much younger, lankier one step forward from the crowd. They have the same intense green eyes, the sharp lines of their faces eerily similar, the tint of their olive skin comparable in color. But whereas the older one's face seems to be locked into a permanently tired frown, the younger one's lips curl in a devilish grin, the taint of youth still upon him despite his having what looks to be eighteen or so seasons.

"With that, I leave you in their hands," Constinian finishes with a nod. "Since it is _Dies Saturni _and tomorrow is _Dies Solis_ and the day of rest, you shall have tomorrow to acquaint yourself with the citadel. Hence, on _Dies Lunae_, I expect to see each and every one of you here, at attention and ready to report at the 5th hour. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye sir!" comes the response from most of the knights now standing in formation in the courtyard.

"Caius will now address you," Constinian replies with a curt nod. "The rest of you are dismissed," he says to the remaining Roman ranks. Turning his heel, he makes his way through the sea of Roman soldiers, who part, giving the standard Roman salute as he strolls past them. As soon as he's past the Roman ranks, they begin to disperse, save a but a few including Ectorian and Caius

"Well now, mates, 'twasn't so bad, was it?" the younger, lanky soldier says cheerfully, flashing another grin as he leans on his spear, addressing the knights. "So lads, it looks that I'm to show you the ropes and such. As for Lot," he looks around, ensuring the commanding officer is nowhere to be seen. "Well, he's a piece of work, no doubt. But don't you mind 'im any, for you'll only see 'im for training. Anyway, as has been said, I'm Caius, but you may call me Cai. And this be my father, Ectorian. Unfortunately, he seems to have lost his voice his a bit, so I'll be doin' the talkin'. This'll be awhile, so at ease, knights."

The knights relax with a sigh as Cai proceeds to lean his heavy spear and shield against a tree, coming back to stand in from of the group, his hands behind his back as his father looks on, arms crossed across his chest.

"Now, as your officer, I'll be in charge of you as far as everyday needs, along with Julian Sergius here, the _Tribuni Angusticlavii_." An older dark-haired, dark-eyed man steps forward, nodding in agreement with Caius' words.

"With the Tribunus Laticlavius Ectorian in charge of the more mental aspects of your training," Cai continues, "You shall also have to answer to Lady Ceridwen, the wife of your Legatus Legionis, acting quartermaster, and caretaker of your general physical welfare. Thus you shall treat her with the respect befitting her rather high station," he nods to her as she stands impassive to the other side of him. On either side of her stand Gaius and Trajan, shadowing her every move as any bodyguards are want to do. In front of her stands Maeve, along another girl of approximately eleven seasons or so, her bright red locks loosened from their knot and waving haphazardly in the wind as usual.

"Lastly, you will find the older Sarmatians already here will also play a role in your daily upkeep. Some have been here longer than the others. Others, not so much. But be assured that in some point in time they were in the rather similar precarious position you currently find yourselves in." Cai nods to the group of older Sarmatians milling about on the edges of the newly arrived company. They stop whatever they are currently doing, respectfully nodding back to him and then continuing with their various tasks.

"Thus," Cai continues, "I assure you they comprehend your situation far better than any of us. Now, I've wasted enough breath on you lot. Julius?" he addresses the soldier next to him. Julius, standing at medium height and on the thin side, proves older than Cai, around some 30 seasons or so. His dark eyes belie a sadness fit for someone containing more years. This, combined with general look of apathy upon his face, makes it rather obvious he's been in service for a while. And judging by the rather nasty looking white scar slashing down along the right side of his mouth and the weathered look of his tanned skin, it has been a rather long time. His surprisingly graceful fingers clutch at his spear and he still holds his shield to the ground as he eyes look over the group, unreadable as they flit over his charges. And while such emptiness would usually make one feel uncomfortable, for some reason, many of the men in his charge find his lack of overt menace and general sense of competence a welcome change from their previous experiences with various commanders they have dealt with today, save the unexpectedly considerate Cai.

"Well, men, it looks as though Rome has taken another group for payment," he begins, raspy voice flat and without emotion. "And as such, I will be in charge of shaping this group so that the empire may make some return on such a payment. As you have heard, I am Julian Sergius. Most call me Jols. I am to serve to as advisor and mediator for the lot of you, especially your commander, a Lucius Artorius Castus as I am told. I assume he is present?"

With that, the slim black haired, green eyed young man who Lot berated earlier steps forward, pushed to the front by Agravaine. He is young, his unsteady eyes having trouble meeting Jols'. Despite this, he uses all of his control to draw himself up to his full height, which is slightly taller than the Tribuni Angusticlavii.

"I am he," he replies, voice wavering before he has the chance to catch himself.

"Ah, I see," Jols replies, mouth curling into a unreadable grin. "You are the Roman one amongst them, I take it?"

"Aye, my lord. They call me Artorius, my lord."

"No need for that 'my lord' nonsense, young pup. For within time, should you survive, you will be _my_ commander."

Artorius casts his head downward at his mistake in addressing the other soldier, causing Jols to sigh with irritation.

"No need for that, either. 'Tis one thing to make a mistake. 'Tis another to dwell on it. Men!" he calls out to the rest of them, nodding for Lucius to come forward and stand next to him, facing the group. "This is your commander. And as such he is responsible for you all. Whatever acts you undertake, he will answer for. So I will assume you have the sense enough to see your hopefully future glory will be reflected in him with the same respect accorded to you.

Artorius dips his head in a faint bow of acknowledgement, but the Sarmatians remain impassive.

"In the meantime," Jols continues. "You are dismissed. Caius and Ectorian will accompany you."

Despite the dismissal, the newly arrived knights stand about, unsure of what to do, some slowly beginning to move to the back of the group while others have begun to shiver from the increasing cold. The older Sarmatians begin to move amongst them, herding them in the direction of the barracks on the other side of the citadel.

"Alright, you people, let us show around this rather illustrious stronghold," Cai begins wryly, further ushering the group away. Taking Artorius by the arm, he pulls him away from Jols and towards to the rest of company. "You're coming along too, lad. C'mon," he continues. Artorius follows him mutely, his eyes scanning for Agravaine among the crowd. Locating the other knight, his eyes meet Agravaine's, the other elder knight's own gray eyes flashing in recognition as he nods to the young commander to follow him. Artorius breathes a silent sigh of relief, relieved that one day out of many more to come has finally seemed to come to an end.

Waiting until the last of the group has disappeared from the courtyard, Jols suddenly turns towards Ceridwen, dropping his spear and shield to the ground with little ceremony.

"I've been wondering where you've been too. No doubt getting yourself in a muck of trouble with that one," he says as he winks at the red-headed little girl. She knowingly smirks in reply as his face unexpectedly lights up with an amused half-grin. As he goes down on one knee, Maeve runs up to him, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Been gone for too long, Da!" she exclaims as he ruffles her hair. Pulling her into a ferocious hug, he stands up, picking her up with groan.

"I told you, little one, I had to go with them to get the new lot of knights," he replies, planting a kiss on her forehead as she leans into his shoulder. "And you're getting to be too big, my girl," he continues with an exaggerated huff as he readjusts her weight against his hip. "Don't know if I can keep going about doin' this!" he continues, eyes lighting up with joy as he finally settles on a comfortable position with which to carry her.

"I told 'er that, sir and she wouldn't believe me," Gaius mumbles, causing Jols to clear his throat to suppress a laugh. Trajan launches into a coughing fit, attempting to cover up his own snorts of laughter.

"I told you you'd grown, you idiot! Always whining _I'm small! I'm so short! Whenever will I grow!_ That gets quite tiresome after a while! " the red-headed little girl calls out with a wicked self-satisfied smile, running up to catch up with them as they make their way across the courtyard. Ceridwen follows suit, grabbing the older girl's hand.

"You and that mouth of yours, Vanora," the older woman replies with a snort. "You'll have twelve seasons to you within a month and yet you still refuse to control it…"

"You don't!" she retorts. Trajan's coughing becomes even louder, causing Gaius to hit him in the shin with the bottom of his spear. Trajan attempts to return his brother's action, missing completely as Gaius easily sidesteps the motion.

"Such insolence!" Ceridwen retorts. "I should take you out back and flog you. What would your mother say?"

"Nothing, considering she's dead," Vanora replies smartly, rolling her eyes in irritation. "It's not like father can do anything either, considering he's dead as well."

"Shame, child. Sometimes you make me wish I did not have to put up with you!"

"You don't mean that," Vanora replies matter-of-factly.

"And how do you suppose that, you little cur?"

"'Tis not your nature. 'Sides, you'd be bored without me or the other ones frankly," she continues. "Six children, all without any parents to their name. You couldn't let us kinless ones starve," Vanora replies confidently, standing on her tiptoes and giving Ceridwen an unexpected peck on the cheek. Ceridwen bats her away with a huff and a wave of her hand, though her mouth twitches with the vestiges of a smile before she catches herself, her face going impassive again.

"You horrid little thing! Continue and you'll get no supper being so smart with me, young miss."

"Drats!" Vanora continues. "Well, I _am_ starving," she says aloud. Glancing to her side, she sees the cautionary look of unfettered displeasure cloud Ceridwen's face, causing her to quickly fall silent.

"I see I haven't missed much," Jols says with a smirk as he walks ahead of them.

"Same as always," Maeve replies steadily, though she closes her eyes and attempts to stifle a yawn, the excitement of the long day finally catching up with her. "Must she always be so bold?" she continues, looking over her shoulder at Vanora who's currently whistling some foreign tune and skipping to keep up with them.

"Funny, I always see the same boldness in you, little mistress," Jols replies. "If anything you're worse, you spoiled little thing."

"Hmph. It's not as though she's my sister."

"Aye, she may not be by blood, but she is in spirit. Besides, you'd miss her, if she weren't around," he replies easily, leaning her head into the crook the of his neck. "I must admit, she keeps you busy while I'm gone."

Maeve thinks on his comment, finally nodding in agreement. It is true, she would miss the little fire-headed malice. She doubted she could find a more out of the ordinary roommate, especially considering her own father was always gone so often. And Vanora was a fighter, always threatening to kill and/or seriously maim the older children whenever they mistakenly attempted anything not on the level. Frankly, no one could ask for anyone better to share quarters with. Thinking on this, she looks over he father's shoulder, catching Vanora's eye. Giving a little wave, she stifles a giggle as Vanora blows a kiss back, giving a sly wink in turn. Yes, she was definitely was never boring.

As the sun dips below the horizon, the group makes their long way to the main living quarters at the back of the citadel. By now, Ceridwen has dismissed Gaius and Trajan, they leaving for their own barracks with their usual nod and salute. Maeve has fallen asleep in her father's arms, snoring loudly, while Vanora skips ahead. Reaching their destination first, she salutes the soldiers who stand guard at the heavy wooden and metal studded doors. Seeing her, they nod in passive acknowledgment, one of them knocking on the doors to give the signal. As the entranceway swings open and the party steps through, Jols slows down, waiting for Ceridwen to catch up with him as Vanora runs ahead, shouting out a raucous welcome to the other children playing in the yard. Enthusiastically returning her hoots and howls, they surround her as she starts chattering on about what the day has brought.

"As always, thank you," Jols murmurs to Ceridwen, shifting Maeve's weight in his arms. Recognizing that she wears her grandmother's costly, fur-lined wrap, he takes it off of her, handing it back to Ceridwen and wrapping the child in his own deep red legionnaire's cloak.

"And as always, there's no need for thanks," Ceridwen replies, arching an eyebrow. "If her mother were still alive, she would be doing the same. But since Malmuira is not, it is the least I can do, taking care of my own grandchild when he father is off on business and such."

"Not to mention putting up with your son-in-law," Jols replies knowingly.

"Considering he is such a pain, it's a wonder that I do," she replies flatly, though a grin tugs at her mouth. "She washed up before, so you can just tuck her in," she continues, her usual brisk tone returning as they step though another wooden door leading to their prospective quarters. "I'll have one of the women bring you both some supper, along with some mulled wine. Seeing that you've been on the road so long, I am sure you can use it."

"Real food and an actual warmed drink? I cannot ask for anything more. Shall I report to Constinian for anything?"

"No, no He's too probably too occupied with the new group. I doubt I'll see him until morning. In the meantime, you need some much deserved rest."

"Aye, captain," he replies in jest as they reach the stone steps. Climbing up three flights of stairs, they reach their floor. Jols approaches Maeve's quarters, with Ceridwen taking the ribbon of keys from her belt, unlocking the wooden door and letting him in.

"I expect things will get quite exciting around here, now" she says as he wanders inside.

"To say the least. New knights always bring it out," he replies.

"Well, I'll leave you two be. Goodnight."

"Aye, good night. And as I said before," " he says, turning to face her. "Thank you," he murmurs, voice low with genuine appreciation.

"Think nothing of it. 'Tis a pleasure, not a duty," she replies. Lingering for a bit as she watches Jols tucks Maeve in, Ceridwen leaves after a while, crossing to the other side of hall and unlocking the door to her own quarters. Appreciative of the glow of the fire and the warmed room, she quickly notes Constinian's cloak and over-shirt tossed across the golden surface of the table sitting closest to the red-hot grate. _Just as sloppy as ever_, she thinks to herself with a smirk. _One day he'll set this entire place on fire_, she reflects as she quickly pulls the edges of the garments away from the sparks of the hearth and proceeds to fold them accordingly. No matter; she'd learned almost three decades ago there were simple certain faults one had to let go of if they wished to remain sane. No need to attempt to change him now. And it ultimately didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Finishing her task, she looks out the window, noting the dusky sky. It will be an hour or so before she fetches her other charges from the yard and sends them to bed. Taking advantage of this rare opportunity of solitude, she takes a parchment scroll from one of the dark wooden shelves lining the wall. Pouring herself bit of wine and taking a seat in the large chair by the fireplace, she gives a sigh of relief as she begins to read. After all, with all that has passed, the Goddess only knows when she will get a chance at such a simple pleasure again.

* * *

_Dies Saturni_ - _Day of Saturn_, Saturday

_Dies Solis_ - _Day of the Sun, _Sunday

_Dies Lunae_ - _Day of the Moon_, Monday


	4. Training

"The one thing I don't get how they keep goin' at it, back and forth, 'round and 'round. It looks downright monotonous if you ask me."

"No one asked you, you git."

"Just making a statement, 'tis all," the younger boy replies evenly to the older boy with a shrug of his shoulders.

"You're always 'just making a statement.' Can you ever just shut-up?" the older boy retorts. His dark eyes squint against the bright light of the afternoon as sweat pours down his brow, helped along by the warm metal of the breastplate of his young legionnaire's uniform. The fact that he stands at attention in the direct rays of the sun didn't help his situation, his pale skin starting to turn pink from the heat.

"Never really been one to take instruction well, now have I?" the younger boy counters. Absentmindedly spinning around an intricately carved dagger in one hand, his hazel colored eyes travel back forth between the two knights' skirmish in the large, dirt filled courtyard. It's the last skirmish of the day and the crowd is worked up, yelling and cheering every time of the fighters score a hit. The older knight is already on his guard, the other much younger knight rushing at him, his wooden and brass practice-sword held in the high guard of the offensive. The older knight stands his lower guard though, waiting for the inevitable mistake of his foe. But it doesn't come, for the younger knight feigns left, quickly sidestepping his own previous step, whipping around to the right and bringing his sword with him, slashing across the front of his practice partner. The other knight easily meets his opponent's sword, locking it with his own, though he misses the younger one's sidestep again, causing him to move slightly off-balance. It's enough of an opening for the younger knight to withdraw his sword and take another swipe across the older one's armored chest. It's not quite a direct hit, but close enough for the older knight to become alarmed, the younger knight's surefooted quickness being faster than initially expected.

"You see that?" the young legionnaire says excitedly. "He's fast, that one, the baby of the lot."

"He may be fast, but he doesn't keep a good guard," the younger one drawls. His lips curl into a knowing grin of satisfaction as the older knight almost scores a hit on the younger knight's shoulder, causing a murmur to run through the crowd. The younger one has barely a second to get away, but almost immediately he's moving again, easily ducking and dodging the strong blows of the older knight.

"He's slippery enough!" the young legionnaire retorts.

"Not quite up to par yet, though he'll be quite a sight to see in some years," his younger companion easily replies. "For now, he can only rely on attempting to let Peredur wear himself out. But Peredur's too smart for that."

"Eh, maybe. But still, the baby's wearing him out a hell of a lot more faster than expected."

"It's a farce…"

"My arse!"

"Must you two always argue!" Vanora spits out as she stands on the second rung of the wooden railing surrounds the courtyard. Suddenly, younger knight scores a ferocious hit on his opponent's leg, causing a few cheers to go up from the crowd. As the other one attempts a hit back while his opponent distractedly grins to the crowd's approval, the younger one suddenly sidesteps his move, scoring yet another hit on his opponent's back, causing Vanora to bring her fingers to mouth and give a piercing whistle of approval as she leans further over the railing. "He's certainly a sight to see, yeah?" she sighs, nodding at the younger knight, who's swiftly back on his guard again, his lanky body tense as he awaits the next move. Quickly pushing his longish black hair out of his crystal blue eyes, he grins a bit, his slightly freckled alabaster cheeks turning pink as he swings his sword downwards to defend against other knight moving towards him. While his opponent is older with his sixteen seasons, stationed at the wall for three years or so, this young one proves of the youngest of newly arrived company. Roughly only thirteen seasons or so, his astoundingly beautiful face still holds the tinge of alluring youth, only the dangerous glint in his eye hinting at a deeper maturity.

"Besides," Vanora continues, not bothering to turn around, eyes still watching the young knight. "Everyone knows Octavius is an idiot and Leonius talks too damn much…"

"Watch your mouth, little girl," Octavius growls, only causing Vanora to smile wickedly as Leonius rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"Least I'm not standin' here frying to death," she retorts, turning around and poking a finger into his metal breastplate, causing Octavius to roll his eyes and swat her away.

"God's curse! Why do I put up you!" he mumbles.

"'Cause you're my older brother..."

"In spirit, not blood."

"Doesn't matter. We're still both kinless."

"Whatever," Octavius mutters, suddenly going quiet when he sees Lot narrowing his eyes in his direction.

"See that?" Leonius says, pointing at Lot with his dagger, his eyes narrowing in annoyed disbelief. "I couldn't put up with that sort of thing, always having to take orders and follow directions. Octavius' barely got thirteen seasons to 'im and he's already runnin' scared. And it's only been a fortnight or so and Lot's already got half the new company scared shitless. As for the other half, well, they're too worn out from endless drills and such to even care now."

"So you'd rather make the weapons, yeah?" Maeve replies, dragging the waterbucket closer to rails before Leonius grabs her hand and hoists her up on the third rung next to him.

"It's what my father does. Why shouldn't I?" he replies, quickly putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her as her foot slips off one of rungs. "At least I won't have to follow orders. And I can make and do what I want. It's an honest, worthy trade."

"If you're this ornery at only ten seasons, how are you gonna be when you're old and boring like the rest of 'em?"

"A damned rebel, that's what."

"Talk like that can get a boy crucified!"

"Aw c'mon Maeve. You've got a little insurgent in you too…"

"I just keep mine quiet, unlike you!" she says, smacking him on the arm. "You could learn a lot from Honoratus. He never says a word."

"Or so you think. Father can get downright verbose when he's in the mood. Besides, mother talks enough for all of us…gah! What are you doing!" Leonius suddenly bursts out, hands going to his shaggy blonde hair as Maeve pulls it tight.

"It fell out," she replies, tightening the bind that holds it away from his face. "'Tis barely midday and it's already coming aloose," she continues, clucking her tongue.

"You're insane," he pouts though he lets her finish.

"And yer sloppy," she retorts.

"The better to balance out your insanity."

"Slag," she mutters under her breath.

"You wouldn't have it any other way, idiot," he returns. "Why I keep you around, I don't know," he says, cuffing her on the ear, causing her to yelp. A sudden cheer goes up from the crowd, signaling the match is done as Peredur hands his practice sword to his opponent, indicating that he yields.

"Because no one else is willing to listen to your ramblings," Maeve returns, tugging his hair and smiling with satisfaction when she hears him let out a cry of pain.

"Water, girl!" Peredur suddenly calls out from the middle of the circle as he stalks over to them, followed by a young, dark-haired page who has been shadowing his every move since he's been done. Maeve quickly disengages herself from the rungs of the rail, reaching down to grab the bucket, quickly sloshing water into the wooden cup and handing it to him.

"'Tis a damned bloody shame, my own wee cousin knockin' the stuffin' outta me!" he grumbles as he pours the water over his head, quickly shoving the cup back into her hand as she swiftly hands him another already filled cup.

"Color me surprised as well," Leonius replies with a shrug as the knight unbuckles his sword belt and hands it over to the boy.

"You 'n me both, son," he replies ruefuelly. "Tell yer father that'll need a new buckle. I'll drop over to 'im in a bit to give the coinage," he continues as he hands his practice sword over to the page. "And you," he says to him, "Make sure my real sword is ready for this afternoon. Apparently, I need some practice," he gurgles as he drinks all the contents from his second cup. "Well, at least it's cold," he continues, handing it back to Maeve.

"Aye sir," she replies distantly, watching as the younger knight from the previous skirmish saunters up behind Peredur. Vanora has apparently taken notice of his presence as well. All but falling over the top of the rails to get a good look at him, she's saved only by Octavius quickly reaching out and grabbing her cloak to snatch her back.

"Good show, _Percival_," he the young knight says gallantly, running his fingers through his hair again, eyes flashing in triumph as he reaches out a hand.

"It's 'Peredur,' you imp!" the older knight swears, grabbing the younger knight by the shoulders, spinning him around and attempting to put him in a head-lock. "Only the blasted Romans call me Percival. Bloody whores! Always attempting to Romanize everything in their path. You should know better, Galahad! By the gods, we're from the same village, boy, and not a soul there called me by that pansy 'Percival!'"

The young knight moves one way and then another, easily slipping out of Peredur's grasp with just as easy a laugh.

"'Tis only because you're so small!" Peredur replies, clapping Galahad on the back, almost causing him to stumble. "You'll loose some of that quickness once you get a bit taller and get some meat on those skinny bones 'o yours, what now."

"Ah, jealously rears its ugly head," Galahad replies. "I must say, it was quit an easy task defeating you and whatnot…"

"Liar!" Peredur says accusingly. "You're breathing hard as we speak!"

"You've caught me! I must say, I'm quite ready for a drink…"

"Hey!" Maeve calls out as Vanora snatches the cup from her hand and refills it, shoving it into Galahad's hands before he can even finish.

"Thanks, lass," he replies, flashing a smile at Vanora.

"T-Thank _you_," she says faintly, backing away as her eyes widen in awe, her cheeks quickly turning red. Octavius rolls his eyes with a loud sigh, relaxing against his spear as Leonius sniggers.

"However, boy," Peredur continues, throwing an arm around Galahad and leading him away from the ring. "If the archery is your strong point, as you've boasted so far, you'll be quite the force to reckon with if you keep on like this with the hand-to-hand things."

"I should only hope so," Galahad replies evenly, nodding to Vanora she shoves another cup into his hand while Maeve mutters under her breath. Lifting the empty waterbucket, she proceeds to follow Peredur and Galahad, Leonius and Vanora following suit after bidding goodbye to Octavius, who has other official duties to attend to.

"How'd you get to be so good, m'lord?" Leonius asks the younger knight as he slings Peredur's belt over his shoulder and takes the waterbucket out of Maeve's hands. She nods gratefully at him as she wrings her hands, happy to not carry the abrasive braided handle of the thing.

"Practice, young one!" Galahd replies easily. "When you grow up with many uncles, there's always someone running around willing to teach to you how to kill things. A grisly business gets to be normal after a while."

"Yer mum never minded?"

"'Twasn't around. She died giving birth to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry m'lord," Leonius replies quietly, a bit of shame in his voice.

"No need to be sorry," Galahad replies evenly, ruffling the boy's flaxen locks with his hand in reassurance. "'Tis the cycle of life. Besides, my stepmother took good care of me. She's quite a fierce one as well, never willing to let me fail and such. Ah, here we are!" he calls out as they stop in front of the blacksmith's shop.

Even through they're all standing a few feet away, they can still feel the heat of the bellows and hear the clangs of metal on metal emanating from the two story brick-roofed building. Standing outside of it is a short woman, a little older and a little plump. But she still remains handsome, in her prime, her blonde hair tied back from her round face. Dressed in a simple blue dress, her dark blue apron tied around her waist, the table in front of her is filled with daggers and knives of various sizes. Her hand held out, she balances a small knife on her fingers. Letting it come a standstill, she holds it there, eying it to determine whether its balance is acceptable. Mumbling to herself, she drops the knife into a small pile on the left side of the table. In the meantime, a small child of about four or so sits in a rough hewn chair on her right. In front of him on the same table lies a large heap of various stones, all different colors and cuts. His small, skinny fingers move over a handsome red stone at the top of pile and he drops it into a cup. Gurgling with joy, he picks up a blue stone, holding it up to the light, brown eyes sparkling as he gazes on it. Dropping it into another cup, he continues his sorting. Suddenly, the older woman looks up, hearing the group in front of her. Her deep brown eyes flashing in recognition, she gives a wave as the child next to her gets to his feet and runs out.

"'Nius!" he says, coming up to Leonius and holding out a hand.

"Livius," he replies with a grin, dropping the belt onto his little brother's shoulder. Looking at it oddly, the younger boy shrugs.

"Goes to father," Leonius says, pointing at the shop. Livius nods his head seriously, running back to the building and disappearing into the doorway.

"Hallo, Leonius," the woman calls.

"Mother," he nods.

"Oh, hallo Maeve. Vanora, Perciva…Peredur and Peredur's little friend. How are you? Ah, I see Peredur has seen fit to bring something else for my Honoratus to fix? Hope you have payment from the last time. No, no. No rush or anything just don't want you to fall behind. Oh good, so you do have pay. Leonius? I think your father'll be needing you. This new lot has seen fit to run through quite a bit and it looks like m'lord Constinian will be needing quite a bit more of things. Yes, that's okay, you can just go through the back. Eh, Vanora, would you like to join me for a bit of tea? Well, never mind, I'm sure you have other things to do. Besides, I think m'lady Ceridwen was lookin' for you earlier, as well as you Maeve…"

"Afternoon," Honoratus said, his voice a deep rumble. Nodding his head in greeting at the group as steps from the doorway, he wipes his hands on his apron. His large face is streaked with soot, his massive arms also covered with stuff. One of the tallest men of the citadel, he is almost a head and a half taller than his wife, Varinia. For what he has in size, he makes up for in a rather laconic nature. Not one for small talk, he simply says only what needs to said, barely bothering to do that usually.

"Oh, lovely to see you, dear," Varinia says in passing to her husband, patting him on the arm as he knowingly raises an eyebrow, attempting to following her chattering. "Peredur here is dropping off his belt," she continues without pause. "Apparently the buckle needs some repair and he has the coinage to pay for that job and the last one. I was going to invite the girls in for tea, but m'lady Ceridwen's looking for 'em and I don't want to be the cause of any trouble. By the way, Livius is almost done sorting the settings so you might want to find something else for 'im do, I need 'im to stay out of trouble and such. Oh, and Leonius will be right around, though I think he may be a little hungry, considering he hasn't eaten since the sun came up. Leonius? There's a bit of bread on the stove, as well as some ham from last night. We also have quite a bit of apple cider left as well…would you boys like to come in? Oh no, I guess not considering you've got some vittles back at the barracks. But that's usually terrible fare for the most part, so you can go ahead and take a couple of bottles 'o the cider we have. It was a pretty good harvest this year. Shame you weren't here, Peredur's friend, considering we always have extra and such…"

"See?" Leonius grumbles to Maeve, handing her back the waterbucket as Galahad looks on, eyes wide as he attempts to follow the conversation as Peredur nods his head knowingly while Vanora simply throws her hands up in resignation and directs her attention back to Galahad. "Told you, she talks enough for the lot of us," Leonius continues as Maeve stifles a snicker.

"It's rather charming," Peredur says a wink as he walks toward the door, Galahad following suit with Vanora running after him. "Cider you said, m'lady?" he says, voice dropping to a polite tone as he nods towards Honoratus, giving him the bag of coins. "I could never impose…"

"Go off and take it," Honoratus replies with a shrug, counting the coins. "We've plenty in the cellar." Walking back inside, he disappears into the back of the shop as Varinia continues.

"Well, I'll see you at supper, yeah?" Leonius says, turning back to Maeve, hopeful look on his tanned face as the sound of his mother's voice fills his ears. By this time, her noise has turned into a rather comfortable constant buzzing.

"Aye. I'll bring a bit of nana's boar. Gaius just slew it the other day, so it should be ready by tonight," she replies. "I've got to get back to the infirmary in the meantime."

"Alright. See you then," he replies. Spinning on his heel, he runs around the side of building just as Maeve spots another girl across the road. Giving a whistle, she catches her attention. Catching up to each other, they make their way to the infirmary.

* * *

Her hands are frantic as she grabs his homespun shirt, pulling him to her, desperate to feel his mouth on hers again. He laughs, the sound a low rumble in his chest as he obliges her actions, his lips on hers once more. He's gentle as per usual, though she is not. Greedily running her hands up to his neck, cupping his face in her hands, her fingers running along the dark stubble of his cheeks, she nips at his mouth, her breath coming in short bursts as his own hands tangle through her honey-colored locks. Picking out what bits of straw he can, he sighs against her mouth at the feel of her silky hair. It is one of his most treasured feelings, the sensation of those soft tresses (well, that and those times when they sleep together, their sweaty limbs entangled as she breathes steadily against him). 

Years ago, when he was a silly little boy, before he took up the courage to speak to her or even look her in those bewitching green eyes, he would dream about touching her hair. Spun like gold, as though from some magical loom of the gods, it was the first thing he noticed about her when he initially set foot into the tavern, a few weeks after he'd arrived at the wall for training. She had laughed at him then, laughed at the way he stared at her across the room. But it was never a malicious laugh, one of derision or snobbery. It was the laugh of one who enjoyed life, who didn't mind entertaining the thought that this tall young man might be someone worthy to get to know a little better. His dark blue eyes would follow her every move as she deftly balanced the trays in her hands, sidestepping the increasingly drunk patrons who delighted in getting a little too familiar with the help. One time, he even threatened to flay the whole lot of them, simply on the principle that when a woman said "no," she meant it. She wasn't really worried about it at the time, what with her having some three older brothers at her beck and call, all legionnaires who wouldn't give killing a man a second thought. But it was his efforts that counted. The fact the he accorded what he at first thought was a simple barmaid some sense of respect. It made her take a bit more notice of him rather than her usual fleeting smile and occasional pat on the shoulder and brush of the hand. Still though, it had taken him over a year to wonder up the courage to hold an entire conversation with her. But from then on, they proved inseparable, save for the fact that her father still didn't know. Which is why they are here in the stables, he, picking the bits of straw out of her hair as his other hand drifts to her thigh, hitching up her skirts…

"You two ought to really look into rutting somewhere else. Not all the barracks are quite full yet, not to mention the hay can leave scratches. And I doubt she'd like that very much considering they'd probably show up on her pale skin."

She jumps at the sound of the intense voice, though her mind easily recognizes its usually clipped and quiet tones. Her lover stands there completely stationary, hands still threaded through her hair, entirely used to being caught by surprise by this one, as is his usual style. Though he sighs in exasperation, he can't help the silly grin that comes to his face.

"Tristan," he says evenly.

"Dagonet," the scout replies with a nod as she turns around to face him, forcing a smile onto her face. "Heraniae," Tristan continues coolly as she nods in reply. He's not smiling, which is not unusual. But she can swear she can see the beginnings of a grin starting to come to his face, though his dark eyes remain indecipherable, as usual.

"So…" she begins, moving out of Dagonet's arms, hands flying to her hair in an attempt to smooth back its curls. "Do you always find it so amusing to wander around like a wraith in the night, or is it just another one of your leisurely pursuits?" she says evenly, voice low as she tries to get a hold of her breath. Tristan doesn't reply, face remaining impassive, though his eyes flit down to her untied bodice and wrinkled, lifted skirts. Seeing this, she quickly curses and pulls them down as Dagonet clears his throat, straitening out her skirts from behind, his fingers moving up her back and attempting to smooth down her dress.

"I was actually quite loud," the scout replies evenly, causing her to arch an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Well, if that proves loud, you need to join the assassin's guild," she replies in an annoyed tone.

"Maybe I already have," he shrugs nonchalantly, turning away from her to attend to his horse in its box. Clucking his tongue and producing an apple from somewhere, Tristan coaxes the animal into taking it, patting its head as it eats out of his hand. As he silently moves around to its other side, unbuckling his saddle and taking off the blankets, the handsome grey charger snorts derision again. Tristan begins murmuring a song in his native tongue, the low tones of his voice rolling along, washing over them both. Almost immediately, as though by some strange, primeval enchantment, the proud animal relaxes, its ears pricking up at the familiar sound of his owner's unique voice. Then, the scout begins brushing the horse down, the motions of his hands moving in rhythm to his voice. It's like a meditation of sorts, man and horse letting the ancient tune of their shared ancestors sweep over them like a blessing, giving them strength to fight and live yet another day.

Heraniae watches the strange Easterner for a bit, after a while muttering something along the lines of "ruining the moment," while Dagonet simply chuckles, pulling her against him and wrapping an arm about her as he dips his head to her ear.

"Don't mind him," he murmurs, kissing her ear as they walk towards the double doors of the stables.

"To be honest, I don't" she mutters. "I simply mind the interruption, 'tis all."

"You know," he says, spinning her around so that she faces him, his finger under her chin, causing her to look up at him. "We could avoid all of this if you just told Sidonius the truth…"

"You know how father feels about knights in general. And then of course there is the fact that you cannot marry. Should anything happen to you while in service and if you should have children…"

"They will know that their father loved their mother wholly. No marriage papers can prove or disprove that."

"They will be bastards…"

"By Rome's standards, not mine. Or frankly any of the Britons either."

"But you forget that I am Roman."

"Hardly. So far up here to the North, the lines between Roman and Pict and Sarmatian start to blend."

"You are an idealist."

"And you have too little faith," he chuckles, leaning down and capturing her mouth with his. "But really, Heraniae," he continues, voice becoming serious. "Think on it. You have the support of your brothers should he be unhappy with you. Not to mention the inheritance of your mother, so the lack of protection serves no issue…"

"But I cannot bear to break his heart," she replies steadily. "I don't know what to do should I be the cause of such a thing. And he needs me at the tavern, dealing with the numbers and such," she mumbles.

Dagonet sighs as he pulls her closer to him. "May the gods grant me a daughter as dutiful and devoted as you," he murmurs, leaning down and blessing her cheek with a kiss.

"Should you have any daughters, you will be a whipped man. They will rule you and that soft heart of yours" she smirks, standing on her tiptoes and kissing him on the tip of his nose. "Which is why you should want sons."

"You forget; for us, the line is carried through the mother," he replies. "So essentially, one should be so lucky to have _any_ children."

"That proves quite a fascinating concept," she says wrinkling her brow. "Pity I am not a Sarmatian."

"If you were, you would most likely have a sword in your hand, a bow on your back and a horse under your thighs, not that there proves anything wrong with that. But frankly, I prefer you as is, especially when it is me under your thighs…"

"I see!" she begins to laugh, only to be cut off by his mouth possessively on hers again. Withdrawing after a while, she moves to catch her breath as he leans down to whisper into her ear.

"Think on telling your father. I simply do not wish to mislead him. 'Tisn't right," he murmurs.

"I shall think about it," she replies evenly. "But now, I must go," she continues. "The night rush is about to begin."

"If you must," he sighs, releasing her. Regretfully disentangling herself from him, she moves again to check that her skirts are straight and that she looks decently presentable. Giving her a silent nod of affirmation as he starts towards the door, Dagonet nods goodbye to Tristan on the way, then glancing out the doors to ensure no one's about. As he walks out, she silently counts to one hundred and then begins to move towards the door, also nodding goodbye to Tristan. Suddenly, he looks up from what he's doing, observing her coolly, his steely gaze compelling her to come to a complete stop.

"Do not break his heart," the scout says suddenly after a while, breaking the heavy silence between them. It's a simple statement, said plainly and with little emotion, like everything else he says. But the brightness in his eyes belies something deeper and far more concerned. She returns his stare, swallowing her alarm and struggling to hold it, finally looking away after only a bit. Suddenly looking back at him, she bows slightly. Tristan tilts his head in what can only be called puzzlement, though she's never seen him in such a state, so she really doesn't know what to make of it.

"I would rather cut out my own heart out than see him suffer," she hears herself say. "That I would," she finishes, deciding to say no more. There is no point in using flowery words or elaborate terms with this one. Anything else proves unnecessary, especially when it is such a simple gut feeling that lies within her.

He does not respond, but his eyes remain bright as he gives a slight nod of affirmation. She can only hope it means he believes her, for trust is all she has to go on as well. Moving away from him after a while as the heavy silence settles between them again, she glances around the door that leads outside. Seeing no one of any concern is about, she leaves the stables, easily blending into the crowd who seems to be heading towards the taverns and dining halls as the sun dips below the horizon. Heading over to her father's tavern, she blocks out the chatter of the crowd and easily sidesteps the numerous soldiers crowded around various ongoing games of bones and dice. Giving an empty smile to a soldier who's drunkenly trying to ask her for another mug and attempting to slap her bottom in exchange for tossing some coins her way, she lets her mind wander back to a certain Sarmatian knight.

_I would rather cut out my own heart out than see him suffer._ May the Devil take her soul should she prove unworthy to live up to such an oath when it is called upon


	5. The Beginnings of Something Anew

_Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival._

_**-C. S. Lewis**_

* * *

"This is bloody ridiculous. Artorius should be ashamed of himself…" 

"Perhaps you should learn to follow direction and maybe you won't find yourself in this situation next time. And besides, it was Lot's decision, not his. He'd forgiven you for the injury. Now, if would've kept your mouth shut and accepted it rather than blaming him for stepping in your path (which he most certainly did not, by the way), Lot wouldn't have stepped in. And how in the hell can you _still_ not shoot a single damned arrow straight after being here for a good month-and-a-half, let alone three damn years in the company?"

"Many thanks for pointing out the obvious, brother…"

"All I state is the truth, Gawain."

"I just…prefer the hand-to-hand sort of thing…"

"Are blind? Do you have some sort of malady that prevents you from seeing true? Or are just addled in the head? Agravaine's already taken on that role, so we don't need another madman in the family, you know. It makes us look cursed. And no bar wench or miller's daughter or shop girl wants to rut a cursed man from a cursed clan of the demented…"

"You enjoy being the smart-mouthed one, don't ye, Gareth?"

"'Tis better than being the dense one. You could have killed our commander, you git!" Gareth retorts with a tired sigh as he helps Gawain painfully shrug out of the last of his armor and sets it aside, leaving the younger knight in his riding breeches and the usual long-sleeved undershirt. "In the meantime, you might want to get a draught for the pain from the infirmary," the older knight continues, narrowing his icy blue eyes in concern, nervously running his fingers through his tangled dark blonde hair.

"I'll be fine," Gawain retorts, though he winces as he says it.

"The hell you will. You won't be able to feel your arms by morning, which is only a few hours away, may I remind you. Go to the infirmary and stop being so damned stubborn," Gareth counters as he stalks away to his own bed on the other side of the barracks. Since he is one of the older knights who's been stationed at the wall from the beginning, he has the privilege of having his own quartered-off bed space, versus one of the cruder beds without partitions that line the walls of the stone barracks, which are reserved for the newer arrivals.

"As though you care," Gawain mutters after a while, making sure Gareth is out of earshot.

"You'd be amazed," Gareth retorts without pausing, causing Gawain to jump with surprise. He should have known better. Nothing had ever escaped that one's scrupulous gaze or eavesdropping ears. Watching to make sure Gareth is completely out of sight, Gawain mutters something about being a "bloody know-it-all."

"Are you two twins?" Gawain suddenly hears a quiet voice say as he limps over and flops down onto his bed, rolling over to his stomach to ensure he doesn't lie on his sore, scratched-up arms. Damned heavy pails of water.

"No, though most think it," he replies tiredly, barely looking up at the young knight who addresses him. "He's simply my older brother by a couple of seasons, 'tis all…Lancelot, right?" he says, giving the young knight a disinterested once over. _This one's barely out of childhood_, he suddenly thinks sadly, though the boy's crystal blue eyes blaze with a brightness belying one much older. Not to mention that despite his apparent youth and awkward-looking lankiness, he still seems able to move with the steady grace of one practiced in the art of killing.

"No, I'm Galahad," the young knight replies, taking a seat next to Gawain on his bed despite the lack of permission to do so. "Peredur's cousin," he finishes proudly. By now he's positioned himself at the foot of the bed, his skinny legs carelessly swinging back and forth over the edge of it.

"Aye," Gawain replies absentmindedly. "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Peredur's cousin," he says. While it has been more than a month since he's been at the citadel, he still finds he has trouble trying to remember anyone's name. To be blunt, he doesn't really care to learn much about many of them anyhow. Most of them will be dead before long anyway.

Silence falls between them as Gawain does his best to ignore the other boy, closing his eyes in an attempt to get some sleep. But it's not going well as bites back a sigh of pain as he shifts his position. Apparently his entire body has decided to show him the true effects of the long day. Not surprising, considering he was forced to balance the two full water pails on his hands for the better part of an hour after a full day of training, made especially loathsome due to the inclusion of the wretched archery practice. How he was he to know his arrow would go astray? Besides, it didn't exactly hit Lord Castus directly in the leg. Just left a fairly nasty graze. Moreover, the bloody git shouldn't have been so close within his firing range. He knew he couldn't shoot true to save his life, let alone his commander's. And now to make matters worse, he can't seem to go to sleep, especially with this little imp staring at him so.

"So you're Peredur's cousin?" Gawain hears himself say with a sigh as he rolls back over and sits up. Since the boy won't take a hint and go away, he might as well talk to him. It's not like he has anything better to do.

"Aye," the younger knight replies. "He's been at the wall the same time as your brother. I think they're friends of some sort."

"Well good for them," Gawain replies dismally. "So," he says, turning his full attention to the boy at the foot of his bed. "Any particular reason why you've seen fit to bother me?" A feral grin comes to his face as he attempts to silently will the younger knight to go away. Odd, that look doesn't seem to be scaring the boy at all.

"You're the only one here," the little scamp says with a nonchalant shrug.

"That's because I'm injured. Don't you have anything else to do?

"No."

"Bloody hell," Gawain mutters, rolling his eyes. "You should be over at the tavern with everyone else…" he begins.

"I don't like the way the drinks always make me feel so odd and mixed-up. I always feel ill afterwards, too," the younger knight shrugs again, the dryly factual way in which he describes being drunk almost making Gawain smile. "Not to mention," the young knight continues, "I'm not really in the mood for it."

"Who said I am in the mood to talk to you?" Gawain replies with a snort.

"Well, you are talking to me now, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately."

"For you or for me? Because this is turning out to be a pretty dull conversation so far."

"You're a smart-mouthed little urchin, aren't you?"

"Some say so."

"You know for someone so young, you should tread more carefully. Not everyone has my patience in dealing with impertinent little imps like you."

"I can take care of myself…"

"That so, little one?"

"Aye. And if I can't, Peredur will do it for me. He's my protector."

"You trust he'll always be around then?"

"He's my protector, silly! Of course he'll be around."

"That's an awful lot of faith to have in someone."

"Without faith, we are nothing. What do _you_ have besides it?"

Gawain stops his retort mid-sentence, the wise words of this precocious child causing him all but gasp in surprise. Staring at him with newfound interest as he sits on the edge of his bed, he finds that maybe this conversation won't end up full of wasted words. By now, the young knight has drawn up his legs so that his arms are wrapped around his skinny knees, his chin resting on the top of them. His clothes are a few sizes too big and a bit dirty, while his pale, slightly freckled face is streaked with dirt, his dark hair on the long side, messy and in disarray. But his mouth is twisted into an easy grin, his pink cheeks glowing with contentment as his unsettlingly mature blue eyes take in Gawain, refusing to look away from the older knight's inscrutable stare. There's not a trace of the usual resentment, anger and discontentment Gawain constantly sees reflected in so many of the other knights' eyes. Hell, you can always see it, their wishing to not be here, their memories of home mockingly tugging at their minds as they undertake the rest of their fifteen year debt to Rome. But that is all apparently neither here nor there for this one. Behind those warm blue eyes lies an unflinching sense of hope, awe and almost flat-out acceptance of the fact that he's even here, allowed the honor to serve with Sarmatia's finest at such a young age. And frankly Gawain doesn't know whether to call him stupid or saintly for maintaining such a tolerable attitude about the whole situation. But for now, he might as well give him the benefit of the doubt and go with the latter.

"So it's all about faith for you then?" Gawain says slowly.

"Aye," comes to the easy reply.

"Easily said for one so young and damned innocent. How many seasons have you got to you, boy?" Gawain tosses out, arching an eyebrow in irritation.

"Thirteen or so," Galahad replies with another shrug. Gawain does his best to hold in his gasp, biting his lip to remain quiet.

"So if you have been serving in the company for the last three years like the rest of us..."

"Yes?"

"Then that means you started when you were…ten?" It comes out sounding a lot more surprised and concerned than Gawain initially intended it to be.

"Aye," comes the steady reply.

"By the gods! They're taking them younger and younger now…" Gawain mutters ruefully.

"Not really," Galahad replies. "It's just that when they came to take my older brother, I insisted on going too. Couldn't have Lohengrin and his addled brains going off by himself, now could I?"

"No…we couldn't," Gawain says slowly, still trying to come to terms with the young knight's age. "So, uh, is your brother here now with the rest of us? I know they pulled us all from different parts of the empire to come up to this damned deadened place…"

"No, Lohengrin was stationed further south," Galahad replies, cutting him off, voice suddenly darkening.

"Oh, I see," Gawain replies, realization hitting him at the young knight's use of the word 'was.' Galahad gives a little nod, eyes stormy as he looks away, drawing his knees further up into his chest and giving a little sigh. The change is subtle but it's there, for the anxious little boy this young knight should be has finally made his appearance.

"Well, you still have Peredur," Gawain finds himself saying quietly after a while. "He seems like a good man to have as a brother, even if it is not by blood."

"He is," Galahad replies. "I was glad to find that he'd been stationed here," he continues, his own voice hushed as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "It's just the dust," he mutters quickly , refusing to look at Gawain as he wipes his eyes again "

"Of course," the Gawain quietly says. Silence falls between them, Gawain letting the young knight get a hold of himself.

Suddenly, the anxious little boy is gone, the older, peculiarly adult one right back in place as Galahad looks up again, his face brightening.

"So you're one of how many brothers?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

"Too many!" Gawain laughs.

"No, really, how many?" Galahad questions.

"Well, there's Agravaine, Gareth, Gaheris, and then me, in that order. Though, due to Agravaine's…not so agreeable temper, Gareth is considered the eldest one."

"Agravaine? But…he looks so different with the dark hair and all."

"Not really. Same build and eyes. He just has our grandmother's hair. She was apparently a Briton who my grandfather married after serving here. He brought her back to Sarmatia when his time was up. Agravaine apparently inherited her looks. And her temper as well, if the stories are to be believed," Gawain finishes with a grin.

"Fascinating," Galahad says with genuine surprise. "And what of Geraint? He always seems to be hanging around all of you often enough."

"You seem to ask a lot of questions," Gawain replies, though not unkindly.

"I need a lot of answers," Galahad counters, shrugging in that knowing way of his, causing Gawain to snicker.

"You don't say?" Gawain retorts arching an eyebrow in disbelief. "Well," he continues. "Geraint, while not a brother, is of our village. So he might as well be related, what with us being so far away and such. We grew up with him and had the luck of him being in our company while me and Gaheris were stationed in Hispania…"

"And what of the others?"

"Gareth has been here at the Wall since the beginning. He started before we did, while Agravaine was the first out, stationed in Hispania before we arrived there. Then three of us crossed the sea from Hispania and came here, where we finally met up with Gareth again," he says, suddenly yawning.

"Oh, forgive me," Galahad says, quickly getting to his feet. "I did not know you were so tired. I should be off…"

"'Tis fine, boy," Gawain says with a wave of his hand. Somehow, this little imp has piqued his interest and he doesn't wish to shoo him away just yet. "Like you said," Gawain continues. "You have nothing better to do!" Galahad quickly scampers back to his previous position, flashing a smile after he settles back in, the sheer elation of it causing Gawain to laugh out loud.

"By the gods, boy! I'd hate to see what you look like when you're actually happy. You're liable to break your face with a smile that big."

"You're just jealous of my good looks, lion," Galahad smirks, causing Gawain to laugh again.

"Watch yourself, you little rogue!" Gawain says with a chuckle. "You're too young for preening. Enjoy your childhood while it lasts. You don't want to be an old man like me…"

"And how many seasons do you have?"

"Fifteen…"

"Why, you're hardly older than me!"

"But I am wiser!"

"You give yourself far too much credit, sir!"

"And you ask too man damned questions," Gawain retorts with a laugh, quickly realizing he has been unceremoniously trapped into actually caring about the imp's general welfare. Not that he'd ever admit that to a soul. But it wouldn't hurt for the skinny little thing to have another guardian. And it'd allow him have a younger brother of sorts to boss around, which was good considering he'd always been the baby of the family. Moreover, Peredur couldn't be around _all_ the time.

They settle back, each talking of their villages and families and home life, of what they miss and of some of the actual good things that come with being stationed at the wall. By the time the 24th and final hour of the day of passed, they find themselves excitedly talking of everything, from the other knights and their various ways, to the best way to sneak rations when that scary git Lot isn't looking, to how long they think they will stay at the wall before they're forced to move again. By the first hour, everyone has returned from their various indulgences, but the two still talk, ignoring everything else going on about them. By the second hour, Peredur has finally had enough of their chatter, dragging Galahad away, scolding Gawain for keeping the damned boy up too late (Gawain only smirks in reply) and physically tossing the young knight into his own bed.

"You'll be tired as hell come morning," Peredur scolds as he dumps more blankets onto Galahad to guard from the cold of this late November night.

"You worry too much, old woman," Galahad says sleepily, holding back a yawn.

"'Tis the point, you vagrant!" Peredur snaps, not bothering to hold back his own yawn. "Now go to sleep."

"Fine," Galahad says with a huff, rolling over. Peredur simply shakes his head as turns around to leave.

"_Percival_," Galahad calls out suddenly, a smirk on his face.

"Boy, how many times have I told to not call me by that…!"

"Goodnight," Galahad quickly says. "Goodnight," he repeats. "And many thanks."

"For what?" Peredur growls.

"Everything," Galahad says after a while, yawning.

"Eh, well, alright then…" Peredur replies gruffly, utterly unused to such overt affections. "Goodnight to you too, you imp," he says after a while, voice softening. Galahad simply grunts in response, almost completely out by this point as Peredur steps away from his bed.

"Sleep well," the older night adds quietly. Galahad does not respond, the gift of sleep completely upon him. _May the gods protect you, little one_, Peredur thinks as he finally leaves, making his way back to his own bed.


	6. Seeds of Discontent

Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.

Day after day. Night after night. Week after week. And now, month after month. The constant grind of it is enough to make any man cagey and just downright stir crazy. It had not been like this at most forts further south and even on the mainland of the empire. Those from these outposts had always been allowed some measure of apathetic autonomy, their previous responsibilities only to kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest proved the case for most of them. Training for "the barbarian cavalry" was either outright ignored or barely even touched upon, almost all the various knights' previous Roman commanders finding them barely above contempt or simply too much trouble to even bother to deal with. Hence, the lack of organization meant that many of the younger knights had yet to be involved in any sort of real combat, while the older ones grew increasingly distrustful and defiant for lack of any sort of attention. Apparently discipline, while theoretically held in high regard by these Romans, fell by the wayside in practice. And they wondered why those whispers of the dying empire seemed only too true to believe.

However, life at Aelia Citadel had proven quite to the contrary, with her commander Constinian proving just as curious as well. This one was no ordinary Roman captain, who usually proved either too overwhelmed and preoccupied or too condescending to care. He demanded respect, deference, discipline and most importantly, loyalty. From his Romans _and _his Sarmatians. Law was carried out to letter, deference given to no one who dared to break it. Education was held in high regard, every enlisted man required to read and write Latin. It proved rather contrary the usual concept of apathetic discontent with the fact the foreigners knew rarely knew anything of the language of the empire, save what they picked up via various orders and formations in training. Even more odd proved his lack of regard to their religion.

If there was one thing these supercilious Romans always prided themselves on, it was the infinite superiority of their rigorously applied Christianity. The Lord proved the one and only savior. Those who did not believe it so were damned, their souls forfeited to the Devil and his minions, along with all false idols, pagan gods, and archaic rituals. Or so the various priests, monks, nuns and other clergy were apt to tell you at your old outpost, sometimes on a daily basis. But this commander allowed an uneasy peace between the religions of his Roman brethren, the Britons, Sarmatians, and even far Easterners who traded within his citadel. Of course, Mass was held on a daily basis, high Christian holidays kept to the letter, clergy scattered throughout the fort. But everyone knew the unspoken regard given to the pagan Britons. Of how on their seasonal holidays some shops remained closed, some of the less life-threatening duties left unattended to. Of how the noise of the drums and bonfires and the wild calls of the frenzied dancers in the forests outside the citadel drifted on late into the night, even as the legionnaires grumbled about infernal racket of the damned barbarians they were enlisted to protect, here at the border between the civilized and primitive world. Some said it was the result of the unholy influence of the Commander's pagan, Briton-born wife, the Witch from the Orcades. Others blamed it on his supposedly addled brain, of how he had "gone soft" in the winter years of his long life. But as far as anyone could remember, since he had become Legatus Legionis of this fort, the oddly held peace had been in effect. No one had so far proven brave (or brainless) enough to question it. So it was and would continue to be. And thus in the same way Constinian's oddly unspoken edict of religious peace continued, so would remain his demands of discipline and other such foreign concepts of duty. Hence, even when absolutely nothing is going on, the schedule remains the same.

Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.

Which is how the knights found themselves in this rather tiring but static situation seven months in; winter has yet to bring even one Woad attack, while the Hibernian Irish from the island to the east have apparently seen fit to retreat for the season. Combine such idleness with plenty of time to mull on the prospects of serving what seems a lifetime here, it proves no surprise the seeds of discontent are beginning to grow.

Roll call. Breakfast. Training. Sparring. Supper. Patrols. Dinner. War Studies. Freedom (if only for a little while). Sleep.

It proves enough to drive any man mad.

* * *

"You'd prove quite the threat if only you'd speed up…"

"Shut it, old man!"

"Old man? I think you're older than me by a bit yes? Sixteen seasons…"

"Quit yer babbling and fight, you blaggart!"

"See? Quite a bit of bite…" the Artorius pants, ducking at the last minute from the wide arc mad by Bors' left hand as he swings his knuckledusters. "If you were faster, that would have proven quite deadly," he continues, sidestepping Bors and swinging his sword through the air in a rather graceful arc, then deftly swinging it around behind him and whacking his opponent on the back with the flat of it. This causes Bors to gasp and stumble. Artorius should follow it up with another blow, but he steps back, allowing the other knight to collect himself. The crowd gathered around the rails of the practice ring (as is usual for the last day of the week when the knights abandon use of the practice swords and use of their own weapons) murmurs, all wondering why the captain doesn't just finish it.

"Now he's just showing off, the dirty Roman dog," Lancelot spits as he leans on the rails that surround the ring.

"Maybe if you proved a little more accurate, you could've won the previous match!" Leonius replies, causing Maeve to snicker. "Then you'd be the one facing your slow little friend there," he continues. Both the children, along with Vanora, are in their usual spot on the other side of the ring. Leonius and Maeve are precariously balanced on the third rung, while Vanora remains on the ground (for she has grown within the last few months, finding she no longer needs the height of height of the rails to see), Galahad on one side and Lancelot on the other. The children, waiting with water and aid and other supplies in case anything should go wrong, watch the match in fascination, a few of the younger knights also hanging about.

"Watch your mouth, boy," Lancelot snorts.

"Like I've ever have before," Leonius retorts.

"How about you shut up!"

"How about you follow your own advice?"

"Dim-witted child," Lancelot sneers.

"Worthless knight," Leonius sneers back.

"Both of you need to shut it!" Vanora retorts, spinning around and shooting them a look that immediately causes both their mouths to snap shut.

"By the Goddess, if you're able to do that now with only twelve seasons to you, you'll be a holy horror when you're grown," Maeve snorts.

"Good," Vanora replies with a flick of her hair. "Can't let these knights get away with everything. Besides," she continues, voice going soft, "Bors ain't that bad. He's good enough, yeah. Just a bit slow. He's got heart, though," she sighs. "You can't deny that…"

"Oh, wonderful," Leonius interrupts. "Lords and Ladies, we have a new love," he continues, rolling his eyes.

"B-but, I thought you worshipped me, my Lady of the Red Tresses!" Galahad replies in mock confusion. "You've only shadowed my every step for the almost a year or so," he implores, a silly grin coming to his face as he takes Vanora's hand into his, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. "What ever have I done to fall out your graces?" She rolls her eyes, yanking her hand out of his, though there are the beginnings of a grin on her face.

"A while ago, I would've found myself speechless at your grace. Now, it proves nothing," she replies. "But don't worry, love. You're still a rather ravishing beauty of a boy" she says with a grin. "But you're a little, well, _too_ striking. You've fourteen seasons to you and you're still prettier than me, which is no hard feat, may I remind you" she replies, exaggeratedly fluttering her lashes, brown eyes flashing.

"I am insulted," Galahad sighs with mock anguish. "You've broken my heart, my fire-headed love!"

"You'll get over it, at least until some other charming beauty crosses your path," she replies, biting back her laugher.

"But they say the first heartbreak burns the most," Galahad replies with a smirk. "Whatever shall I do?"

"Time heals all wounds," Vanora says. Suddenly, she grabs Galahad by the head and pulls him towards her, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead, causing Leonius and Maeve to laugh aloud.

"A parting gift of the rose-haired lady. I am complete," Galahad mutters as he forcefully wipes his forehead, which only causes them to laugh louder.

"Well, at least it means she'll stop following us around," Lancelot grumbles.

"Thank the gods," Galahad groans, though his eyes sparkle with mischief.

"Shut-up, you," Vanora smiles. "And at least Bors doesn't cheat, like this one,' she snaps, face suddenly going serious as she nods over at Lancelot.

"If you weren't a woman, I'd challenge you to combat right here and right now," he snaps back.

"And if you weren't the most uncoordinated fighter I've ever laid eyes on, I'd accept. Except I don't want to be accused of premeditated murder…"

"Sod off," he retorts.

"Learn how to not get your pretty little tail kicked in the ring, then maybe you can start giving out commands," she smirks.

"How about everyone get a hold of themselves?" a familiar amused voice calls out, causing them all turn around.

"Cai, sir," Galahad replies with a nod, coming to stand at attention for his superior. Lancelot begrudgingly follows suit without a word.

"At ease," Cai retorts with a casual wave of his hand. "Galahad, glad to find you in good health. We were a little worried after that spill you took from your horse during the patrol about a fortnight ago."

"'Twas a mere scratch," the young knight replies, cheeks reddening.

"You sure weren't howling like it was a 'mere scratch.'"

"I was surprised more than anything…"

"Eh, don't fret. You could've broken a rib. Or worse. We don't think any less of you," Cai replies with an easy smile in his usual manner, immediately putting the young knight at true ease. Tossing back his dark red cloak with a bit of flair, Cai leans on the rails, taking a position in between Leonius and Maeve.

"So, did I miss anything?"

"Nah, except Lancelot getting his soundly beaten. He's quick, but no accuracy," Leonius sighs, causing Lancelot to toss him a look of unmitigated annoyance. Leonius ignores him, continuing, "And Bors looks like he'll be on the same loosing end as well…"

"He ain't that bad!" Vanora protests, even as Bors stumbles again, his balance not helped by the slickness of the ground as a result of the fine layer of yesterday's dirty snow covering it.

"Yeah, but he's yet to show his quality," Leonius shrugs.

"That so?" Cai replies with a laugh.

"Aye."

"I need to look out, seeing as you may be taking my job in a few years."

"No need for worry," Leonius shrugs again. "I prefer to be master of my own destiny…"

"All-knowing and cheeky too? 'Tis a wonder anyone puts up with you!"

"You don't know the half of it," Maeve sighs, causing Cai to let out a guffaw of laughter. "Ooh!" he suddenly says as Artorius stands over Bors, his sword point to the other knight's neck.

"I guess he was right," Galahad intones. "Good show…"

"Typical," Lancelot spits. "Must he always win?"

"Considering he's scads better 'n you, yeah," Vanora counters. Lancelot doesn't bother to retort, letting out a grumble as he steps through the space between the rungs and enters the ring. By this time, Artorius is in retreat, his victory decisive. Ignoring his captain, Lancelot steps around him, going to Bors' side and holding out an arm of assistance. Shrugging his shoulders at the other knight's reaction, Artorius makes his way over to Cai.

"Cai," he says, giving a nod of respect, Cai returning it as Galahad arches an eyebrow.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I think I have…things to do…" Galahad suddenly says evenly. "Cai, Artorius," he continues, giving the usual Roman salute. Turning away from them, a bright smile comes to his face as he says goodbye to Vanora. "My Lady of the Red Tresses," he says, giving a slight bow. "'Tis ashame it did not work out between us," he continues, a look of exaggerated dismay on his face. "Perhaps when we find ourselves less indisposed, eh?"

"Perhaps," she replies.

"Ah, hope is renewed. Until then, may I in the meantime?" he says offering her arm, which she takes with a loud, disbelieving guffaw. As they traipse off in the opposite direction, Leonius suppresses a laugh.

"Those two are so damned silly," Maeve groans as she deftly slides off the rails and begins gathering up various supplies.

"Language, young lady," Cai teases.

"What the hell do you mean by 'language?'" she snorts in reply.

"And we wonder why you're such a pain in the arse," Cai laughs. "Artorius," he says to the young captain as he approaches.

"Cai, my friend," he replies, quickly taking off his helmet and handing over to Leonius who eagerly begins to inspect it. "Young man," Artorius says quietly, "You think you can take that over to your father? It looks as though I may have been on the receiving end of quite a few blows to head…"

"Of course, m'lord," Leonius says eagerly, taking the coins the young captain hands him. Quickly counting them, he gives the extra ones back, causing Artorius to refuse them, raising his hands in surrender.

"For your troubles," he says with an unexpected grin, causing both the children's eyes to go wide at this unanticipated benevolence.

"Aye, sir!" Leonius says with a wide smile, slipping Maeve a few of the coins, causing her to give an excited whoop before she blushes deeply and remembers her manners.

"What, you expect any less?" Artorius says with mock sadness.

"They just weren't expecting so much," Cai says with a laugh, slapping Artorius on the shoulder. "Are you sure your brains haven't been addled by those blows to head, my young lord?"

"I am insulted," the captain replies with mock annoyance.

"Eh, well, be off with you before he changes his mind," Cai says, still laughing as he waves off the children. They give each of the men a nod of respect before they run off, heading in the direction of smithy.

"Ah, to be a young little churl again," Cai smiles with a nod of his head, removing his own helmet in the unseasonably warm sun. While snow litters the ground in various areas, the sun is still out, directly overhead at this noon hour. "I miss the days where one's biggest concern was what time the next meal is and how many toys one can snatch from the unsuspecting child sitting next to them…"

"Frankly, I don't miss it much," Artorius retorts with a shrug.

"No?"

"No. Having a bit more control over one's surroundings and no longer being at the mercy of, well, everything has its privileges."

"I forget, you had to grow up a bit before your time," Cai replies after a while, voice becoming serious.

"Not really," Artorius replies. "'Tis no more tragedy than in anyone else's life. Not to mention I was never quite as immature as you," he says with smirk even he ducks out of the way of Cai's smack.

"Impertinent boy!" Cai retorts. "No matter. Now, what's on your mind?"

"Pardon?"

"Don't you try to run circles around me, young captain. You've been distracted these last few days and I want to know what's up. You even missed dinner last night, and God knows your scrawny self can't afford to miss any meals, especially considering you've got more growing to do, being only sixteen seasons and all…"

"Fine, fine," Artorius replies with a resigned sigh. "'Tis only…well…"

"The men have not taken to you and you're worried that they may slit your throat in your own bed?" Cai finishes for him with an easy shrug, causing Artorius to start at the fact that his friend seems able to read his mind. He's still surprised at the fact that Cai knows him so well after only seven months of being stationed here at the citadel. In fact, he could truthfully say that the older soldier has become one of his closest and most trusted men, there always for him and at his back, ready to support him before he even knows his help is needed. But such musings are better left for a later time.

"Well, not quite as harsh, but, ah, yes, for the most part," replies Artorius.

"Don't concern yourself over it. They'll come around. They've yet to have any major battles, so they won't realize all the monotonous training is not to kill them, but rather surprisingly, to save their lives. Besides, you need a little bit of a challenge and a bit of hazing never hurt anyone, especially you up on that high horse of yours." Artorius arches an eyebrow in disbelief, causing Cai to laugh. "Please, lad," the older soldier continues. "Everyone here knows how seriously you take everything. You need to loosen up sometimes. That's the problem the men have with you. And then some…"

"But there are rules. Precedent. Traditions…"

"And none of 'em will save your arse when you're facing down an angry Woad with a dagger to your neck or an arrow aiming at your heart. Sometimes, you just have to go on instinct, which you don't have yet on account of your lack of experience. Now enough of this talk. I'm famished and I'm sure you are as well."

"Putting it that way, I am," Artorius replies steadily, choosing to drop the subject at hand for a later time. Spinning on his heal, he immediately heads towards the officers' quarters, Cai following suit. When they reach the dinning hall, they are met as per usual by a preoccupied Ectorian. Not bothering to look up from the scroll he's reading, Ectorian waves over the two soldiers, signaling supper is ready. Eagerly digging into the meal, both soldiers begin excitedly talking of the afternoon's coming lesson in strategy and warfare as will be taught by Constinian. As they chatter on, their previous conversation is slowly forgotten, at least for awhile.

* * *

"What a bloody mess," Bors grumbles as he gets to his feet, using Lancelot's arm as leverage to moves to get his balance. By now, most of the spectators of the previous skirmish are beginning to scatter, no doubt with other things to attend to now that the spectacle is over

"Must you say that about everything?" Lancelot counters.

"Well, when you get yer arse handed to you on a golden platter, we'll see what you say. Oh right, that already happened!" Bors grits. "He made a fool of me, that one," he nods in Artorius' direction.

"Like he does with us all," Lancelot intones, stealing a glance over to the other side of the ring. Galahad is taking Vanora's arm and walking away while Artorius pulls off his helmet, handing it to the eager little boy, the little girl looking on. After a while, the children run off, leaving Cai and Artorius deep in conversation, ignoring everything else around them.

"Eh, well at least we're done…" Bors says, sliding off his knuckledusters and stepping through the gate of the ring.

"You've got to move faster, like me. You're too damned slow," Lancelot counters following him.

"You sound just like 'im." Bors retorts as they leave, causing Lancelot to scowl but remain quiet. Pushing their way through the crowd, they start the relatively long trek to the barracks.

Walking in relative silence, they finally reach them after a while, the large stone building on the back northwest side of the citadel unmistakable in its use due to its massive size; three stories high, it houses just the Sarmatians, while the barracks located right next to them house various native Celtic soldiers, Romanized for some generations since the empire conquered Britannia some four hundred or so years ago. Other Roman soldiers from the mainland are housed in the building next to that one, with the officers' quarters being the last building in the row of four. The entire living area, while not gated off, is obvious in its being separated from other parts of the citadel. With each building having its own dinning hall and food storages, armory, Roman baths and stable, it proves almost its own little town, self-sufficient and independent for the more civilian parts of the fort.

"By the gods, I'm knackered!" Bors exclaims blinking against the dim, dust filled light as they approach the entrance, the heavy wooden doors on each side of the stone archway thrown open. Few other knights are around, most having gone off to dinner and other duties. Bors flops down onto his bed, facedown, effectively shutting out the rest of the world.

"You oughtta practice you know," Lancelot says, still standing and looming over Bors.

"Fascinating comin' from someone who's had his arse handed to him every single time he's in the ring," Bors mutters, turning over to lie on his back. Staring at the ceiling, he doesn't bother to look in Lancelot's direction as he continues. "You know, maybe if you weren't so flashy with the sword twirling and such and but some more force into it all, you would be quite so sad in the ring. He's always able to disarm of it you pretty quick. Heh, maybe you should carry two, mate. It'll at least make the matches longer," Bors snorts.

"Why in the hell would I do that! Besides, at least I've got some semblance of style about the whole thing," Lancelot sniffs, attempting to sound casual, though his dark eyes flash with irritation. "It makes for a good show…"

"Show doesn't mean a rut when some Woad's got his sword through yer neck," Bors spits.

"_Her_ sword," Lancelot counters. "I hear even their women fight."

"So?" Bors shrugs. "It's still all the same. Same crazed native trying to kill ya. Just because she's well, a She, doesn't mean she's less likely to lop yer head off. You know that."

"I don't have any sisters, thank you very much."

"You unfortunate thing," Bors clucks. "Well I do," he snickers. "Four of 'em. Older. And women can get just as damned dangerous as anything. Worse too, 'cause they're sneaky as hell."

"Someone's got a low opinion of the weaker sex..."

"Weaker my arse!" Bors guffaws, suddenly sitting up. "They're just…I don't know, different I guess. Smart, in their own way."

"Being more intelligent than you isn't exactly difficult," Lancelot says with a derisive laugh, though he swiftly moves out of hitting range away from the bed.

"Shut your yap," Bors growls. "If I wasn't so damned tired, I'll whack you somethin' good."

"I'll do it to you both if you don't shut-up!" a rather spiteful voice to their right says, causing them both to immediately fall quiet, save for Bors.

"Pellinore," he groans, rolling his eyes, though he makes sure say it as softly as possible. In the meantime, Lancelot is fidgeting, looking this and that for a way out.

"Stop being suck a scared old woman!" Bors mutters, though he gets up from his bed and begins making his way out the room.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" a rather large, dark haired knight says, swaggering up to them, light green eyes glittering dangerously despite the dim light. "A couple of fallen warriors, eh? Get yer bums beaten again by that little snot nosed brat?" he sneers, following it up with a mirthless laugh.

"You've yet to beat 'im, at least through any fair means…" Bors begins, but not before Pellinore has come to a stop right in front of him.

"And what do you have to say about that, worm?" Pellinore retorts, tilting his head as though he didn't hear Bors the first time. Bors quickly swallows, eyes shifting over to Lancelot, who's standing behind Pellinore and hasn't been noticed yet. Lancelot emphatically shakes his head "no" while making a cutting motion with his finger across his throat. He then holds his hands up in surrender and gestures towards to the door. Bors looks at him, confused for a bit. Suddenly, he rolls his eyes and lets out a loud sigh, shrugging his shoulders. He hasn't got time for this. Who the hell does Pellinore think he is? Granted, the older knight does stand a full head taller him. And weighs quite a bit more. And he's pretty fast with that dagger currently sheathed in his belt. Not to mention his temper isn't the most stable, worse in many ways then even Agravaine's. At least Agravaine knows the difference between right and wrong, whereas morals for this one don't seem to exist. But still…

"Look, _Pellinore,_" he huffs, hoping to all the gods that his evident exasperation is doing enough to cover up the tight coil of fear slowly unwinding itself in his stomach. After all, this man has already put six of his own fellow knights in the infirmary at one time or another, one even for just looking at him the wrong way. "Yeah, I lost, alright?" Bors continues. Pellinore silently laughs, mouth twisting into a rather ugly sneer, distorting his normally handsome face (_Funny how the meanest ones always have the supposed best looks,_ Bors thinks without warning. _Well, the gods do love to play their trick_s). "But at least I did it fair and square…" he continues. Pellinore suddenly stops laughing.

"You saying I'm a cheat, _mate_?" he intones calmly, though his eyes are wide and burning with malevolence, his hands clenching at where he holds them at his sides.

"You hear only what you wanna hear," Bors retorts calmly, though his mouth is as dry as sawdust.

"That right?" Pellinore retorts after a while, demeanor suddenly changing to a far more friendly one. _That's the other problem_, Bors thinks. _The massive swings in mood_.

"Well, sir, I'm glad you think so," the big knight continues, taking a seat on Bors' bed without so much as a leave to do so. Bors grits his teeth at move; if there's one thing in the world he hates the most. it's other people in his bed (save a woman of course. He'd never deny them the gift of that). They smell up and wrinkle the sheets, pound up the already lumpy pallet, steal his pillows and generally muck about, fouling everything up. Add to that, his bed is one of the few things around the place he can call his own, anyone ever found so much as breathing hard in the general vicinity of it is very apt to find their well-being forfeit. However, in this case, he makes an exception, biting his tongue and choosing not to bring up the particularly touchy subject. The big knight is still within striking distance in any case, so Bors simply leans back against the wall, relaxing a bit. Lancelot is still attempting to make his way to the exit as stealthily as possible. Well that won't do.

"Lancelot here thinks it as well," Bors continues, nodding in the direction of the other knight. If looks could kill, Bors would be struck dead on the floor judging by the glare of unfettered malice Lancelot's giving him. Bors arches an eyebrow at him, giving the most innocent smile he can muster up in response.

"Well I'm glad of that. Also glad to see he wasn't planning to leave without giving his greetings," Pellinore scoffs. "That would be rude. And we wouldn't want to be thought of as rude, would we, Lancelot?" he continues, again not bothering to turn around to directly address the other knight.

"I…was simply off to the tavern. Quite famished you see," the young knight quickly says, all but scurrying back to stand at the foot of Bors bed. Glaring again at Bors, who simply shrugs his shoulders in bored response, he continues, "It's just that it's been quite a while since I…"

"Ate?" Pellinore retorts. "As though your fat arse needs it." Lancelot rolls his eyes at Bors, who's silently laughing at the absurdity of it. Everyone and their mother can see that Lancelot is one of the slimmest of all of them, outside of maybe Galahad and Urien, one of the younger native Caledonians in the corresponding Roman legion that sometimes trains with them.

"So Artorius has beaten you both? One right after another? Such a same really." Pellinore says, quickly changing the subject.

"What's done is done," Bors shrugs.

"Oh, I disagree," Pellinore snorts. "I say it's high time that the little git be taught a lesson in the art of _real_ warfare."

"By the Gods, if only," Lancelot adds.

"Come again?" Bors questions, something about this whole thing not sitting right with him.

"If you think I'm not fought 'honorably' as you've called it before, you've yet to see anything," Pellinore snorts, getting up from the bed. "It's been seven months and methinks that little Artorius' head proves a bit too big for his helmet, 'tis all," he continues.

"Can't argue with that," Lancelot mutters.

"Actually, you can," Bors retorts. "It's just practice, no need to take it seriously…"

"Says the one who always loses," Pellinore snarls.

"Show me your victory and then we can talk," Bors counters, not even caring about Pellinore's instability at this point.

"Careful what you wish for," Pellinore retorts. "I don't face 'im until the end of next week. Let's just say that after I'm done with 'im, he won't be fighting for a good while."

"You're insane," Bors snorts. "And I'll believe it when I see it," he continues.

"You're dangerously close to a trip to the infirmary," Pellinore tosses out, moving towards Bors, who takes a step back.

"I'd like to see you try," Bors retorts, hand flying to his dagger.

"Hello, what have we here?" a cheery voice calls out from the entrance to the sleeping quarters. Dagonet comes in followed by Agravaine, carrying his usual look of exasperation. Bors quickly takes a seat on the bed, looking casual, while Pellinore spins on his heel, heading towards them, an exaggerated smile on his face. He may be a tyrant to the younger knights, but he knows better than to cross the older, more experienced ones. He's a lot of things, but stupid has yet to prove one of them.

"Dagonet, Agravaine," he nods to them. Dagonet nods back in reply, while Agravaine all but ignores him. They've never liked each other; while Pellinore does his best to hide it, Agravaine, in his usual attitude of not caring of what anyone thinks, doesn't bother to conceal his contempt.

"Just on my way to dinner," Pellinore continues.

"Oh really?" Dagonet says, voice still cheery, though his eyes narrow. He looks beyond Pellinore to Bors and Lancelot, who look back at him and shrug their shoulders. They aren't going to say a word.

"Enjoy it then," Dagonet continues with a sigh. No need to start anything now. It's been a long morning and they still have the afternoon patrol. He needs all the energy he can get. Pellinore nods and heads out the door, stopping only to look back and give Bors and Lancelot a rather malicious smile.

"He's goddamned dangerous, I tell you," Agravaine sniffs after a while, heading over to his bed and watching the other two knights as they quickly leave. "Liable to kill his own men."

"Nothing we can do about for now," Dagonet counters.

"Oh, we could do something about it. No one's willing go that route," Agravaine retorts, taking his dagger out and preparing to sharpen it against the whetstone on the tabletop next to his bed.

"We need more time. Who knows, maybe he can be trained to direct such viciousness into other things, like the enemy…"

"Dogs can be trained. That one," Agravaine snorts gesturing towards the exit with his dagger, "Needs to be put down. Most likely permanently."

"Give it time," Dagonet says thoughtfully after a while. "What's the worst he can do?"

* * *

"Why don't you at least take a god-damned swing at me, you arrogant little _cur_!" the burly man screams at Artorius, chest heaving with frustration and breath coming out in hot snorts against the freezing air as he attempts to circle him. Artorius prevents him from doing so, jumping from foot to foot and never letting him out his sight, stony green eyes flitting over him as he attempts to pinpoint his opponent's weakness. He may have found it, judging by the crazed look in the eyes of his adversary. And today, he must be especially careful; it is the last day of the week again, so they use their own weapons. Utilization of real ones, while advantageous overall, drastically increases the potential for deadly accidents. And Artorius has no need for any more "accidents." Quickly shifting his weight to his other side and digging his foot in to ensure he doesn't slip in the wet snow, he still holds his sword in the guard in the offensive, even as the taller, heavier man rushes at him, weapon swinging around in chaotic but forceful arcs. However, the young captain easily sidesteps him as he charges him again. Artorius does have an opening to swing around behind himself and hit his challenger on the back, but he refuses, simply allowing the other man to crash headlong into the rails that surround practice circle where they skirmish.

"Does our young captain find himself too honorable to even raise his sword!" the older opponent sneers as he gets to his feet. Grabbing his hand where the splinters and sharp pieces of the broken rail have caused cuts of various sizes, he can already feel the wetness of blood trickling down his tanned skin, the brilliant red drops of it sizzling as they hit the snow. Touching his bloodied hand to his head, he also feels the warm liquid already beginning to trickle down his temple. Darting his tongue out the side of his mouth, he tastes his own blood, the result of a split lip from dashing into the rails.

"You might want to get that looked at, my lord…" Maeve says, seeing the nasty cuts from her usual vantage point of standing on the third rung of the practice circle.

"Shut-up, girl," the older knight snaps, the unadulterated malice in his voice startling her and causing her scramble back off the rails, the only thing keeping her from falling completely off of them is Leonius quickly grabbing her by the shoulder. The older knight laughs at her scramble as he sucks in his bottom lip, finally licking away the last of the blood in an exaggerated motion.

"Maybe I like the taste of it, eh?" he continues, whipping around to face her, face contorted in a mask of barely concealed ire as he brings his hand to mouth, sucking the blood away from that as well. "Maybe the taste of human blood is the only thing that feeds the lust, yeah?" he continues.

"M-maybe," she stutters.

"Maybe, if a certain little girl doesn't keep her mouth to herself," he retorts, still licking at his hand, "A certain little knight might enjoy the taste of _her_ blood, wot?"

"I-I don't know," she stutters in barely contained horror.

"Think on it, then, my little empress," he smirks, taking one last lick at the wound on his hand and spitting out the splinters from it. "Think on it long and hard, especially as you sleep in your little bed and the shadows of your dark little room move and sway, you not knowing whether they're simply tricks of the light or…something else.

She's at a complete loss for words, the color draining from her face as she fearfully bites her lip in an attempt to keep some semblance of sanity. Pulling her dark red cloak tighter around her, she shivers, though not from the cold.

"I thought so," he scoffs, now licking the inside of his hand where another injury apparently is. "Yeah, so just keep your little platitudes to yourself, cur," he laughs manically.

"Maybe a certain little knight should try winning the match for once, Pellinore!" Leonius sighs, rolling his eyes and hauling Maeve up closer to him.

"The boy should watch his mouth!" Pellinore replies, eyes narrowing in anger.

"The _boy_ should watch his captain," Leonius retorts. "Maybe he'd be able to see when he's coming up strike, rather than crashing into the rails like some blind old wench!"

Pellinore's at a loss for words, though his chest heaves with anger. "I should beat you with the flat of my sword," he sneers after a while. "The whole lot of you," he mutters, suddenly turning his attention back to the action at hand.

As he stalks away, Leonius playfully shoves Maeve away from him, though the look on his little face is serious as he takes in her grey skin and wide eyes.

"Forget 'em," he says. "Everyone knows he's all bluster and no bark, though…wow!" he suddenly snorts derisively. "That was a cheap shot if I ever saw one."

Artorius is on his knees, gasping for air. His sword is still in one hand, though his other hand is around his middle as Pellinore reels his leg back for another kick. _Where in the hell is Lot!_ the young commander thinks quickly as he instinctively braces for the inevitable. This is the 3rd time in as many weeks that Pellinore has bested him using unholy means that apparently no one else sees. _Jols! _he thinks just as he feels the boot connect with his shin, gritting his teeth to hold back the yell of pain. It would only encourage him.

Suddenly Pellinore's hand comes into his line of vision. "Come now, captain. Let me help you up!" the he jeers. Artorius refuses to hold out his hand or accept his opponent's in the phony assistance. But it makes no difference, as Pellinore roughly grabs him by the shoulders and drags him to his feet.

"And no one is doing anything because…?" Maeve mumbles, voice finally coming back to her.

"Because Pellinore's back to them and we're on the other side of the stall. They can't see. Or hear it over their own noise."

"_Pellinore,_ _titim gan éirí ort!_" she mutters in reply.

"What?"

"May he fall without rising!" she spits.

"Ah, Gaelic curses. Superb," Leonius sniffs. "I see you are not in the best of moods then."

"You really think so?" she snaps, just as Pellinore strikes his captain's back with the flat of his sword, a painful sounding snap echoing in the air. Even though Artorius proves further away from them, they both wince at the exhalation of pain that comes from his mouth as he all but doubles over, matching the groans of the crowd. Then swiftly, without warning, the young captain is up, whipping around, his sword clanging against Pellinore's. The other knight attempts to unblock the move and use his strength to push him back, but fails as Artorius unlocks his sword, snaking it around so that comes within millimeters of Pellinore's chest. But at the last moment, he slashes down, using the flat of his sword to strike Pellinore first across his stomach and then the side of this his thigh. Hitting a nerve and causing his leg to spasm, Pellinore's forced to fall to his knees as Artorius is rewarded with a yelp of pain. He then backs away, casually twirling his sword through the air in a lone arc as he allows his opponent due course to collect himself. But Pellinore is still on his knees, cursing and panting as he fights the pain in his thigh. Pointing his sword into the ground, he leans his weight on it in a vain attempt to get to his feet.

"A little aid here, mate?" he implores through gritted teeth after a while.

"You've all the help you need," Artorius replies evenly. "I'll allow you to recover, as would be the respectable thing. Though in an authentic sort of skirmish against the Woads, your opponent would save such mercies…"

"Must you always shove it in our faces!" Pellinore replies harshly, his words only audible to his opponent due to the noise of the surrounding crowd. "The fact that you are so much _better_ than the lot of us, damned Roman pig!"

"Pardon?" Artorius replies, arching an eyebrow in confusion.

"You heard me, you son of a whore!"

"I'll take that as an outburst of anger, rather than outright insubordination as most captains would," Artorius replies steadily, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "No offense is taken…"

"Naturally. Leave it to our dear captain to show mercy!"

"Why? Do you expect any less? Such is your due…"

"From the Roman bastard? Of course, dear friend. You're all so self righteous, one would think mercy is beyond you…"

"Well," Artorius interrupts. "I am sorry that you should think it so. I truly have your, as well as the rest of _my _men's interest at heart…no matter how much most of you try to deny it."

"What are they saying?" Maeve says, leaning over the rail in an attempt to get wind of the conversation.

"Don't know," Leonius replies, grabbing her cloak and pulling her back so that she does not topple over.

"Why does he not strike!" Maeve replies impatiently. "He could end it now…"

"Not the captain's style," Leonius replies with a nod. "You know how close he holds his honor. And not all of us are as vicious as you, you little imp."

"I still say he could end it now, 'specially with a bit of serious injury," she pouts, crossing her arms in disappointment, which only causes her friend to let out a loud guffaw.

"So you truly think of us as equals?" Pellinore continues, voice softening. "Is that so?"

"Aye. 'Tis so," Artorius replies.

"Well," he pants, "A bit of aid, then?"

Artorius stares at the other knight, eyes narrowing in suspicion. But what's the point? The knight obviously finds himself in a bad way and it's a waste of time to let him sit there. He could wait him out and allow him to yield, but it looks like the stubborn git plans on doing no such thing. Besides, they both need the practice anyway. Setting aside his misgivings, he moves towards the other knight, holding out his arm in assistance.

Without warning, Pellinore's hand snakes out, yanking his captain's hand so fiercely that it causes him to stumble forward, so that even as Pellinore gets to his feet, Artorius is still slipping, trying to dig his boots into the snow. But it is to no avail, for Pellinore whips his sword around, slicing at his captain's back in a treacherous move of combat. The only thing that saves Artorius is the fact he's wearing the usual cuirass over chain mail. However, the force of the blow knocks the wind out of his lungs, causing him to pitch forward. Suddenly, Pellinore is in front of him. The last thing the young captain distinctly remembers is seeing the butt of his opponent's sword heading for his head followed by the clang of metal reverberating off of his helmet. His vision suddenly explodes in a burst of flashing white brilliance, the pain slicing through his head like some lightening bolt of agony. And then it goes black, the dull, shocked roar of the crowd fading from his ears.

"By all that is unworthy!" Leonius yells, attempting to slip through the rails and get to the center of ring as Artorius hits the ground.

"Holy hell!" Maeve replies in Gaelic as she attempts the same. But they are both held back, a meaty hand on each of their shoulders, the Roman soldier giving them a nod of warning.

"No place for youngins," he snorts, dark eyes narrowing in derision as he easily jumps the rails of the gate and is immediately at Artorius' side. He's at once followed by a younger, slimmer, black haired Roman soldier. From the other side of the ring speedily come Tristan, Dagonet and Agravaine, the latter threatening for everyone to make way or else.

"Where in the hell were you?" Agravaine sneers to the younger Roman soldier, shoving him away from Artorius, even as the Roman cradles his captain's head in his arms. "By the fires of your hell, are you not his page! Shouldn't you be at his side at all times!" he all but shrieks.

"Peace, Agravaine," Tristan intones, hands already unclasping Artorius' helmet, tossing it to the side into the snow. "Cador was getting help. This thing was already escalating beyond anyone's control," he continues. "Much thanks, Cador," he finishes with a nod.

"Y-yes," Cador replies, rapidly blinking his dark blue eyes to hold back his tears.

"Has Jols arrived? Maybe you should fetch him, yeah?" Tristan replies, the uncharacteristic sound of sympathy in his voice as he glances over at Cador. The page has only fourteen seasons to him. No need to get him even more addled. Seeing his captain in this state would do him no good.

"Go on ahead, Cador," the other Roman soldier nods.

"S-sounds right, Amhar," Cador replies, addressing the other Roman. "Sir…" he nods to Tristan.

"No need to call me sir. Go fetch Jols," Tristan replies, the urgency in his voice making itself evident. Cador bounds out of the ring, on the lookout in the crowd as Dagonet kneels by Artorius side, lightly smacking him on his face to get him to his senses. The young captain isn't completely out, but it's obvious he's disoriented, the activity going on about him not registering in his mind.

"C'mon, you ponce!" Agravaine hisses, worry in his voice. "It's gotta take a lot more than what that bastard's doled out to knock your empty block off!"

"Aye," the other Amhar replies. "Don't go disappointing us."

"I'd say he'll be fine," Dagonet replies, voice blithe though he bites his lip with worry.

"mphmImfine…finewhatsgoingonwhat?" Artorius slurs.

"Just a little knock about the head," Dagonet replies, forcing a grin to his face. "Rather cheap shot, eh?" he says. Looking across the ring, he sees Pellinore standing against the rails, surrounded by a few other knights, who are openly laughing, though many of the older ones look on in disapproval. Narrowing his eyes in what can only be described as bloody murder, he turns his attention back to his captain.

"I-I'll heal…" Artorius continues

"Don't go showing any heroics," Agravaine blusters. "The gods only know that you infernal Romans aren't capable of it," he continues, trying to remain casual.

"Same for you knights," Amhar replies, smacking Agravaine on the back of head for show as the knight picks up Artorius' sword.

"Think you can get to your feet?" Tristan questions, hauling his captain up even as he speaks.

"Should…should be fine," Artorius slurs, struggling to his feet, supported by Amhar on one side with Tristan on the other.

"Just a short distance to the rails," Agravaine says, attempting to sound nonchalant as he leads them away. "I think you should be able to handle it."

"Yes…I will," comes the reply.

"Next time you might to want to give us all a decent show!" Pellinore abruptly calls out, an ugly smirk on his face as he leans against the rails in the other side of the ring. "What a shame, wasting all of these good people's time!"

Unexpectedly, Artorius stands up straight, his former pain seeming temporarily forgotten as the noise of the crowd simmers down. Still supported by Amhar and Tristan, he turns around to face his opponent, slowly making his way over until he stands a short distance from him.

"I yield," he intones. His face is calm but for the tint of his green eyes, murky but burning with some renewed fire.

"Of course ya do," Pellinore smirks, his own light green eyes dark with malice.

"There really is no point to it," Artorius continues calmly, shifting his weight and withdrawing from Amhar's grasp. "Agravaine? My sword, please." The knight hands it over without delay.

"My surrender," Artorius intones, holding out his sword in usual sign of submission.

"You don't say?" the other knight snorts. He ignores the proper gesture of his captain, refusing to officially end the duel and take the sword, his head held up in defiance and pride. With a snarl, Agravaine makes ready to draw his dagger at the open show of disrespect, but Dagonet stops him, trapping his wrist in a vice-like grip. "There will be other times," he murmurs, the caution in his voice and the look of warning from Tristan immediately causing Agravaine to go still. Artorius simply shrugs his shoulders, tossing the sword at Pellinore's feet.

"Of course," the captain replies easily, though his lips are pressed together in barely concealed irritation. He turns his back to his opponent, holding onto Amhar and Tristan for support again. They make their way over to the other side of the ring, Artorius doing his best to maintain his balance and hide his limp, ignoring the pain of the ever-widening bruise on his shin and the way his head swims every time he attempts to take a step. "There is no point when your opponent proves completely unwilling to play worthily," he continues deliberately as they walk away, loud enough so that the crowd hears, causing a ripple of murmurs to pass through them. "I have no time for such disgrace. Enjoy your win, by whatever methods it was gained," he finishes, none of them bothering to stop walking except for Agravaine, who turns around and goes back for his captain's sword.

"Artorius may be unwise and forgiving, but you deserve no such regards," he hisses just loud enough for Pellinore to hear as he collects the weapon.

"Does that prove a threat, cur?" the other knight chuckles, though he finds he involuntarily takes a step back.

"'Tis but a promise, love. We shall see."

The rest of the party reaches the other side of the ring. Dagonet swings open the gate as Agravaine sprints to catch up, growling at the crowd and pushing his way through them to clear a path.

"Now that," Leonius begins with a fiendish grin as he hops off the rungs of the gate, taking Maeve by the hand and pulling her down with him, "is pretty damned cold."

"I must say, considering how many hits he took, the captain handled it rather well," she replies, eyes now wide with genuine admiration. "I would've killed him."

"You bloodthirsty little thing," Leonius chuckles as he pulls his heavy green cloak tighter about him. "C'mon. Captain's probably going to head to the infirmary. You'll most likely have to attend to him."

"Always more lessons," she sighs, following him.

"Well, you're the one who wants to be a healer."

"Come now, straggler!" she retorts, waving for him to catch up.

"Fine, fine," he replies. "Looks like it'll snow again tonight," he says to no one in particular, looking up at the dark grey sky. "At the very least a bit of sleet."

"Wonderful," she replies with a grin. She's always loved snow. The only problem is when it hits the ground and becomes disgusting and dirty to the point where one can no longer play in it.

They make their way to the infirmary as the rest of the crowd disperses, oddly silent at the scene that's taken place. Save a few knights who amble around, Pellinore's left standing in the ring alone, suddenly left with only his murderous thoughts of wounded pride to keep him company.


	7. The Virtues of the Father

_Give us, O Lord, a steadfast heart, which no unworthy affection may drag downwards; give us an unconquered heart, which no tribulation can wear out; give us an upright heart, which no unworthy purpose may tempt aside. Bestow upon us also, O Lord our God, understanding to know you, diligence to seek you, wisdom to find you, and a faithfulness that may finally embrace you._

**-Thomas Aquinas**

* * *

Maeve almost comes skittering to a crash, narrowly avoiding the tall row of shelves filled with numerous bottles and jars of medicinal items just to her left. Coming to a stop at the last minute, she avoids the fall, throwing her hand out in front of her to steady herself and ensure she doesn't drop the bowl of porridge she's carrying with her. Blinking against the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in through windows high above her, she curses under her breath, looking back to ensure the group is with her. They are and appear to be keeping good time. Normally she wouldn't be moving so fast, especially considering this is the older part of the infirmary; she's always found the cracked and faded, almost 300 year-old mosaics and frescos to be fascinating. They cover not only every part of the walls, but the ceiling as well, their creme-colored backgrounds still bright, the red, brown, gold and other colors impossibly brighter. The various old Roman pagan figures and animals are like nothing she's seen elsewhere besides in other older parts of the citadel. The Romans no longer allow such things now that they've become Christian. Most of the decor is newer and religious based, the stiff pictures of pointing, haloed people illustrating the lives of various disciples and martyrs that litter the apocrypha. Far more appealing, the older pagan works document an assortment of things: day to day life, animal sacrifices to the gods, the long-forgotten rituals of the various secret cults that used to be epicenter of Roman religious life. Even the clandestine customs of the legendary Vestal Virgins are rumored to be hidden somewhere within these frescoes, if one knows where to find them. But right now, she has little time to think on how to unlock the mysteries of the now-dead pagans. There are far more pressing things.

"Come on, make haste!" she says in hushed tones, looking behind her.

"Steady on!" Heraniae retorts in exasperation. She doesn't know why Dagonet insisted on having her take Artorius to the infirmary. After all, she _was_ the one who knew where Ceridwen was and was on her way to fetch her when Dagonet suddenly shoved her onto the other side of the young captain, deciding to find her himself. She honestly didn't mind at first, but Artorius proves a lot heavier than he looks and she's beginning to get a little tired, especially after the two story climb up the stairs to the third level. The infirmary is also quite a ways from the dining hall of the officers' barracks. Thankfully, Bedivere seems content to take on more and more of his captain's weight, the young Roman soldier not saying much in his usual stoic manner.

"We're almost there," Maeve counters, rolling her eyes.

"Good, good," Heraniae mutters, blowing a wisp of her blonde hair out of her eyes. She readjusts the way in which Artorius' arm is slung across her shoulder, making his heavy weight more bearable for her. The noise of their movements echoes along the walls, almost eerie compared to the usual sounds of chatter that typically fly along the corridors of the infirmary. For some odd reason, everyone seems to have to have disappeared. _Probably off to supper_, Heraniae thinks, which reinforces the fact she's hungry as well. But more important things take precedent right now.

Maeve finally comes to the proper room, knocking to ensure it's unoccupied. It is, but she's having a difficult time pushing open the heavy wooden door, especially with bowl in her other hand.

"Can you take him?" Heraniae asks Bedivere, but he's already in motion, Artorius' weight balanced in his arms as Heraniae shoves open the door. All enter, Bedivere helping a rather groggy Artorius take a seat on the pallet. He then moves to the windows, flicking open the shutters to let in some fresh air. Maeve immediately gets work, undoing the rather complicated straps on Artorius' cuirass, her years of helping her father get into the unwieldy armor and watching various others do the same paying off. Her small fingers quickly work through the ties and the other two slip it up and over Artorius' head. Bedivere then gets him out the heavy chain mail, tossing it to the floor, leaving the captain in his under tunic.

"Can't keep letting them do this to you mate!" he says quietly, deep voice rumbling with concern, his dark eyes wide with unease.

"It's not so bad…" Artorius mutters.

"It wasn't so bad when Pellinore beat the stuffing out of you last week," Heraniae grumbles, as she takes inventory of the ways he groans as he shifts his position. Apparently the bruises from that incident are still on him. She shoves the sleeve of his under tunic up and begins dabbing at the nasty, wide and bloodied cut on his forearm with her handkerchiefs. "This time, you might have some broken ribs. Try to make sure next time you decide to go into a dead faint, you don't hit the table on your way down."

"Someone…drugged me," Artorius replies slowly.

"Lucky it wasn't poison," Maeve intones, sniffing at the contents of the bowl she has. "Smells like…Rue. I think you Romans know it as _Ruta graveolens_." She stops suddenly, wrinkling up her nose and looking up at him in confusion. "Did you even bother to smell this before you ate it? It reeks!"

Artorius does his best to shrug his shoulders. "I was hungry…"

"You don't say?" Maeve retorts.

"Just got back from morning exercises and…waking up before dawn," he counters. "Put anything in front of me…I'll eat it. I'm…not going to…?"

"Die?" she replies, voice hitching with fear at the word. "N-no. It's usually used to treat, um, bites and bad eyesight," she says with a snap of her fingers, happy to know she's remembered its uses. "You'll live, but you'll be out of sorts for at least a day or so. Whoever, er, did this really, uh, doesn't take kindly to you."

"It could be any one of the men," Artorius mutters.

"Drink this," Maeve says, placing a cup of dark, foul smelling liquid in Artorius' hand. His attention snaps back to her as he arches an eyebrow in question. "A draught to drug you," she says. "You'll need it for the stitches, I think," she continues. He looks doubtful at first but then knocks back the liquid, trying not to gag on it. Within a bit, he starts to feel even groggier, fighting to stay awake.

"Again, mate, you can't keep letting them do this to you," Bedivere intones.

"Especially when it keeps landing you in my infirmary, Ceridwen says, walking into the room. She has her usual impassive expression in place, though her eyes flash with annoyance and even anger. "Dagonet told me everything," she continues. "Thank you two," she says to Heraniae and Bedivere. "I've got him now." The other two quickly move to leave, both knowing how Ceridwen's territorial attitude when it comes to her infirmary. Then again, she is best healer in the citadel, earning a right to run the place as she sees fit. They quickly nod in goodbye, heading out door.

"Maeve, fetch me the needle. He'll need stitches. Also, get started on the paste for the compress for that lovely bruise starting to form on the side of his head."

"Aye," the child replies, taking the needle and thread from a leather case sitting on the table behind them and handing it off. Looking through the jars on the shelves that line the wall underneath the window, she finds the proper ingredients. Wetting a bandage and squeezing the excess water from it into the bowl filled with the herbs, she makes a paste, quickly wrapping it in the bandage and handing it to her grandmother.

"Good to see you're learning," Ceridwen says flatly as she presses the compress to Artorius' head. He accepts it gratefully, holding it in place. Silence falls as Ceridwen finishes cleaning the wounds on his arms, Maeve watching carefully and mentally taking note.

"You can't keep doing this, you know," Ceridwen says flatly after a while, even as Artorius lets out a groan of pain, head lolling against the wall behind him as he fights to keep his eyes open. Maeve continues to watch, fascinated despite the appalling sight of the blood as her grandmother threads the needle with a fine string of silken thread, then plunging it into the young captain's forearm. Her aged hands work surprisingly fast as she uses the tiniest of stitches to suture up the open wound. Wiping down the now closed cut with the disinfectant herbal water, she firmly shakes Artorius in an attempt to get him to remain conscious.

"I know she gave you quite a dram of the drugs so you wouldn't feel the pain, but you've got to say with me, boy," she mutters almost derisively. If not for the worry reflected in her eyes, one might accuse her of being cruel as she lightly slaps the soldier's face. "Wake up!" she murmurs, "Got to see if you've got any broken ribs. Or worse."

"I'm not asleep," Artorius drawls as he moves at an achingly slow pace to sit up straight. Dropping the compress and wincing, he lifts his arms above his head almost unconsciously, letting out an annoyed sigh as Ceridwen pulls off his shirt. Clucking her tongue at a rather large bruise across his lower torso, she quickly runs her fingers down his chest and pokes along his back, asking him if it hurts to breathe or cough.

"No," he murmurs with a frown as his eyes suddenly snap open at the feel of her cold hands.

"Well that's good," she replies. "At least we know you won't die now. Maeve, hand me those bandages and then take his tunic to laundry. When you're done with that, go find either Bedivere, Cador or Cai and tell them that Artorius here will be spending a few days here in the infirmary. It's nothing serious, as you can see, but he needs his uninterrupted rest and I don't want any of those idiots bothering him while he's on the mend. He can afford to miss a few exercises and whatever else they make them do there in the yard."

"But I wanna learn…" Maeve implores

"They'll be plenty of time for that," Ceridwen retorts, mouth clenching in warning, which immediately causes Maeve to stop her questions and gather up the captain's shirt. His armor is too heavy for her to carry, so she leaves it where it sits on the corner.

"Artorius," Maeve asks in a hushed voice, walking over to him and shaking his uninjured arm to illicit a response. "Are you goin' need anything out of your quarters?"

"No…but thank you. They'll know what to bring," he says languidly, looking down at her, his face softening a bit at the concern etched all over her face. "I'll…be fine."

"Hope so," she whispers, looking him over again and giving his hand a squeeze of reassurance. Her unusual move causes him to give her the briefest of grins before he closes his eyes again.

"Off you go," Ceridwen says, pulling her away from him and shoving her out of the room. Shutting the door behind the child, the older woman swiftly spins on her heel, stalking towards Artorius, the anger on her face extraordinarily evident. "This is roughly the 5th time in as many weeks you've been here, Artorius!" she begins, voice rising.

"I think it's been six or so," he replies, sitting up straighter.

"Apparently the drugs also bring out a bit of cheekiness too!" she snorts as she takes a seat in front of him, roughly tossing him a spare under tunic, which he proceeds to put on. "I'm growing weary of seeing you in here again and again," she continues. "You're all bruised up, not to mention you've already had four sutures, suffered one concussion, badly scraped your leg, broken your wrist…"

"A bit of a mishap," he mumbles.

"Of course," she retorts, completely unconvinced as she distractedly brushes back some strands of grey hair that are falling out of the complicated bun at the nape of her neck. "And now this," she adds, gesturing at the cur. Suddenly she sighs. "It's not that I don't like you, boy," she begins, voice softening as she wrings her hands. "Quite the opposite…"

"You seem to have an odd way of showing it," he says flatly.

"I'll ignore that little impertinence and blame it on the drugs, as well as your general annoyance with the fact that you're here," she counters. "You shouldn't be back, frankly. The plain fact is you've to get your men under control. I think words are wasted at this point, considering it's been eight months since you've all arrived…"

"It's been that long?"

"Augustus, September, October, November, December, Januarius, Februarius, and now it's Martius. That's eight by my count, at least by your Roman calendar," she replies, counting out the months on her fingers. "Artorius," she implores, "How long are you going to let this go on? We're almost up to a year and they still see fit to hold you in such contempt that it leads to injury…"

"There're still some…things to work out…"

"I believe you Christians call it 'martyrdom,'" she interrupts. "Frankly, it doesn't become you _at all,_" she sniffs, rising from her seat and turning her back to him to reorganize the bottles and jars that line the shelves on the opposite walls.

"Pardon?" he questions, his mind immediately coming to attention despite the fog of drugs currently invading it.

"You heard me, Artorius. Ravenna is hundred of miles away, on the mainland. We're here on the frontier, at the edges of 'civilization' as you Latins call it. That world has ceased to exist out here at the border of the empire. You're not Uther. You can't take on your father's burdens, trying to save everyone all for the sake of some antiquated code of honor from Rome. After all, that sort of thing gets people injured and eventually killed."

"_Ceased to exist?_" he begins, sitting up stiffly. "You've no right…" he continues, voice rising, only to be cut off by her.

"I most certainly do," she replies evenly, back still to him. "You'd be surprised at how long I've been here and what I've seen," she continues, turning around to face him, the look on her face oddly compassionate despite the detached sound of her voice.

"H-how would you even…know?" Artorius begins, hands clenching at his sides as the memories come flooding back. "You weren't even there when he…was cut down!"

"Neither were you," she points out.

"T-that's beside the point!" he continues, voice catching in his throat. "Were you there when the message came, talking of how he was 'a good soldier' and how he 'gave his life for the empire?' Were you there when my mother collapsed in the dirt, the grief overwhelming her every senses? You didn't see her, hear her wails as they carried on into the night, only to fall silent as she sat there, staring, saying nothing, doing nothing, sitting in the dark for days on end afterwards!"

"Artorius…" she murmurs.

"I don't lash out at them because it would be completely beneath me. I refuse to be some child who falls pray to his impulses, lives without control, exists outside the rules that govern our conduct. I am commander of these men! You think I take it all from them because I'm a martyr? For you? For them even? I don't do any of this for you!" he all but yells, cutting her off completely, trying to get to his feet but failing due to the lethargic effect of the drugs. "I don't even do it for your husband! I do it to preserve their memory of what they wanted to preserve; for honor, for the memory of Rome, as far away from this place as it is. That is what Uther died for, no? It is what I will die for! And you've no right to bring my father into this! I am his child, his _only_ progeny. It falls to me along to commit his memory to this land!" he pants, eyes glittering and sweat pouring down his brow.

"Artorius…" she murmurs again, reaching out to steady him. But he flinches, moving away from her, causing her to frown.

"It falls to me along to commit his memory _to this land!_" he repeats. "D-don't!" he utters as she reaches out to him again. He finally gets to his feet, taller than she remembers, for she's now forced to look up at him as he stares her down. "I'm fine," he gasps. "I know what I'm saying!"

"You don't…"

"I damn well do!"

"Artorius, stop this!" she finally yells, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a good shake. "Sit down!" she bellows, shoving him so that he lands with a hard thud on the pallet.

The jolt of it causes him to immediately fall silent, though his chest heaves as tries to catch his breath. Suddenly he looks up at her again, blinking rapidly to prevent the tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks. "By all that is holy, I-I don't know what's come over me!" he whispers, breaking the oppressive silence between them as his shoulders slump with resignation.

"I believe it is called 'anger,'" Ceridwen replies evenly, taking a deep breath and sitting down in front him once more. She passes him a piece of clean cloth, which he uses to dab at his eyes as subtly as possible. Taking his uninjured hand is in hers, she says "Not quite surprising for someone dealing such pressures as yours."

"Forgive me," he intones.

"You have nothing to ask forgiveness for. You cannot be faultless all the time. I believe your god is the only one capable of such things. However Artorius, you must forgive me," she sighs.

"There is nothing to forgive," he replies shaking his head emphatically. "I-I've completely taken advantage of your consideration…"

"There it is again, the martyr complex," she says resignedly, though a grin tugs at her mouth. "Just accept the confession and give the proper absolution. And it's not consideration on my part, it's my duty. I do run this infirmary after all."

"You are forgiven then," he murmurs. She squeezes his hand in reassurance, then dropping it into his lap.

"More often than not, you forget that you're still just a boy of fifteen seasons…"

"Sixteen," he counters with a half grin.

"Aye?"

"The 28th of Februarius," he adds.

"Well why didn't you say anything?" she retorts. "I am an old woman, you know. I cannot possibly remember everything."

"It didn't prove important," he shrugs.

"It does for us. Constinian would've done something at least. Besides, you're not a grown man yet, Artorius, no matter how much you attempt to fool people into thinking it so. You don't have to act as such all the time. There are others who would willingly share your burdens, if only you let them. Cai, and Bedivere immediately come to mind, not to mention many of the older knights. You're not as hated as you think. 'Tis only a few rotten apples…"

"Except…"

"Except nothing. I've seen plenty of men who think they may do it all on their own, with only the blessings of whatever God they pray to. Men who think others are two weak or innocent to depend on, who take on the burdens of others, only to let it eat away at themselves. Two of them are dear to my heart. And both have paid the price for such hubris."

"Truly?" he asks, surprised at her unusual show of candor. She's never spoken of anything in her past.

"Aye. One of them is my husband. The other, your father." Artorius quickly swallows, willing himself to remain silent.

"Your father was a great man," she begins, rising from her chair and starting to pace the room. "His courage, His empathy, his zeal, his ideals," she sighs. "He was everything to…everyone. A sight to behold."

"You didn't…love him…did you?" Artorius questions, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

"Aye?" she says, spinning around to face him. "Uther? Not in the simple way in which you think. I loved him as one would love his captain, or any person who loves one who exemplifies ideals which he himself can never aspire to."

"Oh," Artorius says, the relief in his voice evident.

"He was one of the kindest men I met when I first came to this fort so many years ago. A mere acolyte from the Orcades sent by the high priestess Viviane, I came as part of the envoy out of the north to warn of the invading Scotti," she says, lifting the sleeve of her dress to show Artorius the inside of her left wrist. The faded telltale blue tribal tattoo of the icy islands far to north is easy to see in the bright light of the afternoon.

"We always came to warn the Romans of such things since they maintained the precarious order of this island. We were their scouts in a sense, especially considering many were warrior priests and priestesses, while others, such as myself, chose to be strictly healers. Because we were and still are so far outside Roman command, it proves more of an alliance rather than outright colonization." she continues.

"Uther had yet to become commander, but I knew even then he was destined for it. While the other Romans treated us barely above contempt, he strove to ensure that our accommodations were befitting those of Viviane's brood. One of the only other Romans to do that as well proved Constinian. And while I did not know it then, I would come to love him for such benevolence. The Sarmatians were rather humane as well, though they didn't say much. I suspect they mostly acted as such out of empathy, for they too are outsiders, knowing all too well how it is to be treated without even the most minor of considerations. As for Uther though," she pauses, closing her eyes in an effort to help conjure up the memories, "He was so far above us all in spirit and truth, is was truly impossible to even to begin fathom. But I'm sure you know that."

"After a month or so, the envoy left, I going along with them. Almost immediately, I begin to notice to I yearned to return, despite the slights from the rest of the Romans. At first I thought proved the result of Constinian's rather attractive advances. You may not think it now, but he proved rather charming. Charming enough that when I finished my six years of guidance under Viviane, she immediately assigned me as emissary to the citadel, knowing where my heart stood. Spring and Summer I spent here, Fall and Winter back on the island. You must understand, while marriage is not strictly forbidden by Viviane, sacrifices are made, as in if one gets married outside of the priests and priestess in the Orcades, you loose their most exalted status."

"That seems to go beyond normal sacrifice," Artorius yawns, the drugs beginning to take their final effect.

"To the contrary," Ceridwen replies, taking a seat in front of him again. "One simply cannot expect to keep up with the constant vigilance and rituals the Goddess calls for if she's so far away. And children are necessary to provide new acolytes, so someone has to beget them. Hence those who leave, while encouraged to return eventually, cannot be expected to stay, at least while they rear their children."

"Anyway, I held out for four years, the call of the most exalted Goddess stirring within me. That is until Boann, the goddess of fertility, finally ensnared me. Thus, I married Constinian, bidding farewell to Viviane, leaving part of my old life behind. However, I soon found I left behind much more than initially thought; had it not been for both Uther and Constianian, I would have surely gone mad in those first few years, the adjustments to Roman life far more difficult than I initially thought.

"I see," Artorius replies, stifling a yawn. She gives an odd grin at his apparent boredom, deciding to finish.

"What I am trying to say through all this rambling, Artorius, is that Uther proved an older brother to me in all but blood. He looked after me, ensured I adjusted to daily life here at fort, inspired me to become known as more than just his _Tribuni Angusticlavii's_ wife. He moved me to come into my own. But what proves even more extraordinary is not the fact that he watched over me but rather, the fact that he watched over us all with such equal enormity…"

"'Tis what I strive to do," Artorius says, cutting her off.

"And I do not fault you for that. However, you must remember you are only a man, not a god. You cannot protect everyone all the time. Sometimes, you have to let the little ones who refuse to follow you fail. They will either find their without your aid or go astray. You cannot rule your entire fate, nor the fate of others."

"But…"

"Artorius," she counters with warning, looking into his eyes. "You are only a man. Uther…well, he thought otherwise. And I don't mean that in a blasphemous manner," she quickly adds, seeing the anger flooding to the young captain's eyes. "Uther thought he was beyond such little things as letting other people die when he couldn't save them. It was a noble and righteous cause, yes. But it still resulted in his death."

"He died defending a village along the Antonine Wall," Artorius retorts, shaking his head.

"Where he should never have gone."

"But the people needed his help…"

"They…they were long dead before he even arrived."

"He would never have gone had that been true!" Artorius counters.

"He did," Ceridwen sighs. "He went, knowing it _was_ true. Viviane's scouts told him as much, as few of them even dying before they made it back to the citadel, ambushed by Woads. But he departed anyway, insisting that the people needed protection. It proved a trap, created by the invading Hibernians of the great island to the east of this one. Those who went with him, a mixed company of Romans and Sarmatians, were wiped out, Constinian's brother among them. Constinian…was scheduled to go, but could not, due to a fall from his horse a few days before," she says, voice raspy with the emotion.

"The…bodies?" Artorius questions, his own voice hitching.

"Viviane's scouts, what was left of them, brought them back. They followed the company on the rear. Most of them massacred were as well. The ones who survived played dead. Only two came out completely unscathed."

"My God," Artorius whispers, making the sign of the cross. "I-I thought it was a simple Woad attack."

"Artorius," Ceridwen begins, taking his hand. "I-I helped Constinian draft that terrible message your mother Ingraine received. We sought not to worry you or panic anyone else with word of a possible invasion. I-it was I who…dressed Uther's…body," she says, sniffing back tears. "After…witnessing what they did, the pointlessness of the doomed mission, how much pain his death caused this citadel and countless others who lost friends and family, I swore to never let a man's pride blind him to reality, never let his inherent goodness be snuffed out in such…a wasteful manner." The tears are openly spilling down her cheeks now as Artorius fights to hold back his own.

"When you arrived here on that first day," she continues, grip tightening on his hand, "Looking _so_ much like your father, with your mother's vivid eyes, it was as though I had been hurtled back in time; Uther's face haunted me, Ingraine's eyes were staring back me, your father's voice ringing in my ears, his own sword sitting there on your hip, gleaming in the sunlight for all to see." Artorius' eyes go wide, her words echoing in head.

"I knew I could not let it happen again," she says. "I could not let the pride and nobility of the Castus clan be its undoing once more. After all, there has already been one martyr. Let enough time pass in what you call 'heaven' for your god to get used to the idea of accepting another one. Your time is not at hand," she chokes out.

"N-no, it is not," Artorius replies, voice hoarse with emotion as he leans back against the wall.

Silence falls between them, save the muffled cries of their grief.

After a while, Artorius looks up. "Wait, you said Constinian proved the other man with such hubris…"

"A story for another time, when you have learned other lessons," Ceridwen counters, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath and quickly getting up. Seeing the uncharacteristic melancholy in her eyes, he decides to save such inquiries for later. "Now," she says, voice becoming distant again, though she bites her lip in order to concentrate, "I assume you are hungry considering you apparently did not finish breakfast?" He nods in response, the words stuck in his throat. "Good," she continues. "The larder has just been restocked, so I'll have one of the pupils bring something up. In the meantime, you may have your pick of the rooms. Do you prove able to stand?" she asks, holding out her hand to him.

"I will manage," he replies steadily, slowly getting to his feet, using the pallet for leverage. He stumbles suddenly, resting his hand against the wall to regain his balance. She arches an eyebrow at him, taking inventory of his measured movements.

"There are others who would willingly share your burdens," she intones quietly, bright blue eyes narrowing in concern, her hand still outstretched. He frowns, brow furrowed with confusion. Suddenly, he gives a deep sigh and reaches out to take her arm, steadying himself. Testing his first few steps, he gains his footing. Leaving the quarters, they cannot deny the change in the air is palpable; rather than the usual oppressive silence of words unspoken, there now lies the quiet resilience of faith and hope of things to come.


	8. Rabble Rousers

It proves a rather beautiful late winter afternoon, if a bit foggy, the chill clinging to the air along with the mist. There was no snowfall last night. Hence the trees of the woods the knights and Roman Legion currently patrol can be seen, their dark bark stripped bare of leaves until spring comes. With the third month of the year in play, the days prove longer. Accordingly, the sun is only just now beginning to fall below its zenith. Though it shines pale against sky, its weak yellow light shimmering above them, it still provides a little warmth. The only caveat is the southern sky streaked with clouds of gray that threaten to burst with snow. Amhar, one of the Romanized Britons in the Roman company that travels with them on this afternoon patrol, breezily waved off the men's mounting concerns of the coming weather. "I was born and bred on this island," he briskly said as they mounted up that morning. "And those beauties won't be tearing open until tonight. All will be well," he continued, ignoring the disbelieving stares of the Sarmatians and mainland Romans. "You simply don't know," he finished with a shrug, his fellow Britons in the company nodding in agreement. These foreigners refused to even learn of the ways of the weather. Why bother to explain it to them?

At least the men now know that not all Roman soldiers are liars, judging by the way the clouds currently hold steady.

"Looks like trouble," Cai says offhandedly, watching the scene in front of him as Lot nods in agreement to whatever Tristan's saying. The scout then melts back into the sea of men behind them.

"As though we haven't encountered that before," Bedivere intones in his usual detached manner.

"'Tis no matter," Artorius replies easily, his relaxed tone causing Bedivere to look at him sideways. "Oh really?" the soldier replies.

"Of course," the young captain replies. "If something should happen, at least we will finally be able to put the training to use."

"Now might be the time for that, mate," Artorius suddenly hears a faint voice beside him say. It takes all of his efforts not jump in his saddle and risk falling completely off his horse at the startling noise, but he maintains his relatively calm demeanor. "My apologies," Tristan continues, laughter in voice at his captain's reaction, though his face remains impassive. "I often forget that my tendency to tread lightly can be… distressing."

"I simply failed to realize you could do it on horseback as well," Artorius replies with genuine admiration. "You'll have to teach me such skills someday."

"Then I'd be of no use to you," the scout replies with a smirk. "In any case," he continues, face becoming serious again, "There're people out here. Why they have not attacked, I don't know…"

"Too many of us?" Bedivere counters.

"Since when has that stopped the Blue Ones?" Tristan replies, narrowing. "Regardless, we're turning around. You're to go the front, and I'm to watch the rear, along with Palamedes and some of the Roman company." As though on cue, Palamedes rides up, followed by most of the Roman troop.

"Wondering what took you so long to notice the Blue Ones, lad?" Palamedes calls out to Tristan, flashing the scout a feral grin at the possibility of getting in some kills before the day is done. This knight not is of Sarmatia per say. Rather, he hails from the Roman province of Cappadocia. A land in the very far east, bordering the southern part of the great Pontus Euxinus, or the Black Sea, it is filled endless deserts, great plains and entire cities carved right into the mountains. A _sarakenoi_, or easterner as the Romans call him in Greek, Palamedes' coppery, bronzed skin, wavy black hair and dark eyes set him apart from the other knights. Well, that and the odd weapon he carries with him he calls the scimitar. "I spotted them miles back. Just on my way to let the young captain here know," he continues with a nod at Artorius.

"Took you a long enough time to mention it," Lot retorts as he rides up.

"No matter, we'll be gone before they can notch their arrows to their bows," Palamedes shrugs.

Tristan snorts with derision. "You best be off to the front," he then murmurs to Artorius, Cai and Bedivere.

"Many thanks for the warning," Bedivere says, in the process of turning his horse around.

"'Tis my duty," Tristan shrugs, clearly uncomfortable at the praise. They need to get going.

Without warning, the baleful sound of a barbarian horn rings out. As though on queue, it's followed the ominous hiss of numerous arrows flying over them. Menacing, barely human screams of gibberish then fly from the trees. The racket of it all causes the horses to start, the younger, more volatile ones rearing into the air. No one falls, but the sound of the horn still slices through the air, the screams becoming increasingly frenetic. The eerie commotion causes dread amongst the ranks, many of the younger knights' terror beginning to rise, though they fight not to show it. Even the older ones prove decidedly anxious; it's been at least a year since any real fight with the Woads. And judging by their screams, there's the high chance they are outnumbered. Without warning, the hiss of arrows whipping through the air comes again, the unmistakable sound of them finding a target hanging in the air. The call of the horn is renewed and then cut off, along with the shrieks of the enemy. The horn calls out a third time, but the cries from before do not respond, the abrupt silence in the air even more unsettling than the previous din.

"A Pict warning," Jols says quietly.

"Be still!" Lot murmurs as he moves towards them. "You've all had the training, now's the time to show it," he continues, voice decidedly more concerned than any of them have ever heard him. "But why didn't any of the arrows hit?" he says almost to himself.

"Either there aren't a lot of them, they're low on supplies and don't wish to engage, or God's smiling down upon us…Weapons at ready," Jols whispers to the Roman soldier beside him, the message immediately carried along the ranks, though there is really no need for it considering all in the patrol already have their weapons drawn. Jols nods in grim satisfaction and rides forward, where Artorius is still calming his excitable animal down. Dagonet goes to follow, but not before he rides up to Bors.

"_Inish!_" Dagonet whispers tersely, narrowing his eyes.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Bors retorts, using the anger in his voice to cover his terror as Lancelot's eyes go wide at Dagonet's words.

"_Inish!" _Lancelot repeats, color draining from his face. "Devil ghosts!" he whispers even as he draws his bow, notching an arrow in preparation.

"Aye," Dagonet mutters, "Picts." Leaning over, he takes the bridle of Bor's horse and spurs him forward. "Retreat to the back…"

"I can fight!"

"Retreat. To. The. _Back_," Dagonet warns, his grim look warning Bors to think twice about arguing. "If one of us dies, 'tis better to be me," Dagonet explains even as Bors looks at him imploringly, though he does retreat. "You too," Dagonet nods to Lancelot. Lancelot's about to question the older knight was well until Dagonet speaks. "He needs your protection more than I do, lad," he nods to Bors' retreating figure. Lancelot's face becomes resolute as hunkers down in his saddle and turns his horse around to catch up with his friend. Dagonet swiftly makes his way to front, his horse galloping past Lot and the others, only to find he almost skitters headlong into a web of vines tied to the arrows that have been shot into the tree trunks.

"Careful there, 'Tis a trap," Artorius says resolutely, fighting to keep his voice calm, his sword in hand. "About to cut through it…" he continues riding towards the webs

"No!" Jols replies, throwing up his hand and holding back the young captain.

"What?" Artorius demands.

"Patience," Jols counters with a whisper, slowly removing his dagger and reaching up to cut off an apple from an overhanging tree. "'Tis a trap alright, but beyond what we're seeing now…" He throws an apple and it rolls forward harmlessly. That is until it rolls past the tangled web of vines and is speared by an arrow shot from the trees. A female voice howls out above them, her swiftly spoken Gaelic apparently impossible to understand. But the tone of her voice along with the visceral malice that lies in it proves clear enough, especially when she's joined by the jarring tongue of the many other Picts hidden around them. Tristan aims an arrow at the top of a tree beyond the web, but his arm snatched back by Amhar.

"They're giving us a warning. 'Tis not deadly yet just…" he leans forward to listen as the voices continue, "If we don't leave, they'll curse us. But not…before killing us." Without warning, Amhar begins to call out in what almost sounds like the Picts' native tongue. The hissing chatter immediately halts, the stillness carried on for what seems and eternity, becoming more and more oppressive. Suddenly the horn comes again, its tone higher. And then, as though from nowhere, in front of them beyond the web there materializes a Woad woman from the mist. Or rather, a girl barely into womanhood, her lanky body betraying her adolescence. Her dark eyes are wild, her black hair stringy and pulled back. She would be pale, save for the savage blue paintings that decorate ever inch of her exposed skin beyond her rough leather pants, bracers and the rough-hewn bodice that binds her. Her thin, dirt streaked face is grim, the feral intensity of her stare confident, adding years to her youthful face. Behind her stands a wild-looking Woad man, also painted in the tell-tale blue. He wears no shirt but rather a cloak clasped with what looks like animal bones. His hair is matted and dark as well, his features similar to the female. Like her, his eyes seem able to stare into them, beyond them even. While his apparent charge carries a bow, the string taunt, arrow notched and ready and aiming at Artorius, he carries no weapon save a knobby wooden staff. He's not leaning on it, on account of his youth, but he still holds it securely. The sound of the horn is abruptly cut off when he raises his hand in signal, neither his nor the woman's eyes leaving the patrol.

_Where have I seem him before?_ Artorius thinks, memories racking his mind until he is distracted by Amhar's actions. Amhar nervously clears his throat before dismounting and walking towards the web.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Bedivere hisses, reaching out to snatch back the soldier.

"If they wanted us dead, they'd have done it by now," Amhar says through clenched teeth. "Do you know the language?" he adds.

"No!" Bedivere hisses back. "Do _you?_"

"Their tongue proves not too different from our Caledonian one…"

"Oh."

"If she shoots, we shoot her," Jols begins to whisper to Tristan, who moves her into his target.

"Even if the Painted Ones in the trees kill us all?" the scout replies dismally. Jols doesn't respond, Tristan keeping his arrow trained on the armed Woad.

Amhar clears his throat again, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing it to the ground. Raising his hands in surrender, he begins to speak in his odd, rolling, native Briton tongue. The Woads don't respond, woman's arrow now trained on him. He begins again, voice steadier. After when seems an eternity of silence, the man motions for the woman to move, which she does, falling into the background and slacking the string of her bow. The man then addresses Amhar, who nods in understanding. Amhar responds and the conversation goes forward. The forest around them remains completely silent save the guttural conversation of the negotiation and the sound of the men's breathing combined with their horses' snorts and stamps. Suddenly, Amhar gestures towards the patrol behind him, his voice rising with what sounds of irritation. The Woads don't respond, the oppressive silence falling once again.

"What now?" Cai whispers.

"We wait," Jols murmurs.

Without warning, the woman bursts out laughing, her cackle throaty, rough and almost derisive, the man giving a smile in his turn. She then points to the trees around them, as well as the trees on the patrol's side of the web. She then points to Artorius and gurgles out something in her language, guffawing again and causing Artorius to arch an eyebrow in question. Amhar, though irate, nods in understanding. He calls out what seems a question, which causes the woman to immediately go silent and back on her guard. The Woad man finally replies to after a lengthy bout of silence. The knight then reaches down to get his sword belt and makes his way back to his horse, quickly remounting.

"We are to go in peace," he begins, giving a sigh of relief. "They will be watching us until we reach the edge of the woods to ensure we leave as quickly as possible."

"Did he explain why they are so damn far South?" Lot questions irritably. "Starting to encroach a bit, don't you think?"

"No."

"Then we go," Jols says, spreading the order down the ranks along with the command to be absolutely silent. The entire patrol begins turning to make ready to leave.

Without warning the whistle of a thrown knife is heard, the thud of it hitting a tree trunk following. Tristan sees it first, rapidly spinning around to take aim at the Woad pair. But they are long gone, only the mist left in the space where they stood before. The scout pulls the heavy, wide-bladed knife out of the trunk, handing it to Jols.

"It wasn't meant to kill any of us," he says flatly as he hands it off. Jols inspects it, then handing it over to Amhar, who examines it, quickly noticing the runes carved along the blade. Muttering in his native tongue, he sheathes the blade. "If we venture back, they guarantee death," he says. "At least that's what the runes say…"

"Well then," Lot declares. "We've had our warning mates. Live today, fight tomorrow," he finishes, already turning his horse around. The others quickly nod in agreement and follow, cutting through the center of the rest of the patrol and moving towards the front again.

"Eh, why did she point to me?" Artorius questions casually, turning back to look at the spot where the Woads previously stood, trying to remember where he's seen their chief before.

"Just reminding me how much of a shame it would be for her to kill you in front of your own men," Amhar replies, agitated.

"I see," Artorius replies uncomfortably. "And who was he?"

"Myrddin, at least that proves his name in his language. Apparently he's their leader…"

"Of all of them?"

"Aye."

"For how long?"

"Didn't inquire."

"And the girl?"

"No name, though he referred to her as 'White Phantom.'"

"Come again?"

"'Gwenhwyvar' in their language."

"Well then..."

"You didn't fancy the little barbarian murderess, do ye?" Cai grins, trying to alleviate the tension.

"She only had a rather wicked looking barbed arrow aimed at my neck," Artorius retorts defensively. "Not exactly expected of most women, no matter their supposed charms…"

"You do fancy her!" Cai teases. "That's where they get you, you know. The Pictish women fight too, remember. All wild and such, just as much as the men. The minute you forget that and start musing on pretty faces, burning eyes and wild hair, they slit you from throat to gullet with nary a regret."

"I most certainly was not considering 'pretty faces, burning eyes and wild hair,'" Artorius sniffs. "Just committing things to memory for the future…"

"Like her pretty face, burning eyes and wild hair?" Cai retorts innocently.

"Let off of it," Bedivere counters with a grin.

Suddenly Artorius' horse whinnies in panic, rearing and catching the young captain completely off guard. He tries to hold on, but to no avail, falling to the ground with a sickening thud. But not before the delicate snap of bone can be heard, followed by his gasps of absolute pain. Cai, Bedivere and Jols quickly pull up short, as do Agravaine and Dagonet, who've been following behind them. Leaping off their horses, they rush to his side, their actions causing the back end of the patrol to come to a complete stop.

"'Tis…no matter," Artorius huff out as he tries to get his feet. "T-tell the rest t-to…carry…on."

"Surely?" Jols intones, concern in his eyes.

"S-surely." Jols sends one of the Romans to ride and tell Lot. As he does, Artorius bites back a scream of pain as he attempts to put weight on his left ankle. "B-Broken," he stutters.

"It may not be so bad, captain!" Pellinore mockingly calls out, flanked by some of the younger knights who attempt to keep straight faces. "You don't wish us to ride ahead and find help?" he continues scathingly. Agravaine quickly notices Pellinore palming something off to Lancelot, who drops it to the ground. Lancelot's face is impassive, save his eyes, which look on the scene with barely contained amusement.

"Ride ahead, with the rest of 'em," Jols commands, his tone of voice deadly serious. "All of you. Now."

"Aye, aye, captain," Lancelot replies with a contemptuous salute. Dagonet has already helped Artorius to his feet, though the injured man blinks back tears of pain every time he attempts to take a step with his left foot. Agravaine quickly moves to calm Artorius horse, his hand gently tugging its bridle as he whispers words of comfort to it. Finally getting the animal calm, he begins his inspection, hands moving over the glossy black coat of its flank. His fingers suddenly stop, feeling a warm sticky liquid near the left flank. A fresh wound. Granted, it's small, so there is no real injury to the animal, but still…

_What Lancelot dropped!_ he hastily thinks. _A rock. They startled the animal with it, causing it to rear…_

Agravaine's looks over and catches a silently laughing Pellinore, flanked by a few of the younger knights, laughing as well. There it is then. _Wel, that settles it_, he considers. _If it is an open hostility they want, then the war has begun._

* * *

The night is now cold, the girls walking along the south wall of the inner courtyard just in front of their quarters fully able to see their breath every time they exhale. While the wind doesn't prove strong, making it slightly warmer than usual, the cold air still has some devastating effects. Wrapping their cloaks tighter around themselves, they stop under one of the gnarled trees standing in the corner by the gated entrance. Granted there are no leaves on the thing on account of the season, it still helps shelter them from the heavily falling snow. They stamp their feet in the rather high snow to get the blood going. Then one of them, a blond haired girl of approximately eleven seasons, leans back against the giant trunk of the tree, pausing to look up at the black velvet of the sky. The stars glitter brilliantly against it but the moon is only half out, making the night unusually dark. 

"They look like little diamonds," she says with a sigh, dark eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the stars.

"And just how would you know what a diamond looks like, Cassia?" Maeve mutters.

"Papa gave mama a rather nice necklace a few days back, to remember the day they married. It had pretty little diamonds in all the chains," Cassia replies dreamily.

"Well, good for her. It must have cost a fortune. Fabian sounds like a rather nice man."

"Papa's the best!" Cassia retorts with a huff.

"I didn't say he wasn't. Why again are we out here?" Maeve counters. Her fingers are beginning to go numb, so she wraps her hands in her father's deep red legionnaire cloak, which she snatched from his quarters before they headed outside.

"I just wanted to see the moon…" Cassia begins.

Because you're moony?" Maeve retorts.

"If you say so," Cassia shrugs in her usual way. Not matter what disagreeable thing you said about her, she just shrugged it off. It's one of the reasons Maeve usually likes her so much (save when she got hair-brained ideas like this one).

Silence falls between them, save for the sound of Maeve's stamping feet crunching in the snow. Suddenly, Cassia goes stiff, pressing her back into the tree trunk.

"Someone's here," she murmurs, nodding her head towards the solid stone wall to the left of them. "Actually, there's more than one…"

"Nonsense!" Maeve retorts. "The gate's closed for the night and we haven't seen anyone come or go…"

"You should listen to your friend more often," an accented voice calls out, just to their right. Maeve jumps, but Cassia relaxes, Maeve able to see the grin on her face despite the darkness. "Told you," the blonde haired girl says in a sing-songy voice.

"Didn't mean to frighten into you," the voice continues, sounding closer this time. They then see him, his pale gray eyes glittering unnaturally against the weak light of the moon.

"I-I'm not panicked, sir," Maeve stutters, wrapping her cloak around her tighter and attempting to back away, only to find the tree blocks her escape route.

"I can see that. And it's Agravaine, not 'sir'" he declares, teeth glittering now as he gives a feral smile. "Don't worry, I have no quarrel with either of you," he declares with a wave of his hand as he leans back into the corner of the wall, effectively hiding himself from anyone who should happen to look their way. Suddenly his face falls. "How does he fair?" he asks.

"W-who?" Maeve questions. She doesn't even bring up the fact that if he's caught here, on the grounds of the private quarters after curfew on this side of the citadel, they'll be hell to pay. He probably knows that anyway, obviously not caring.

"Artorius. Who else?" Agravaine snaps impatiently. Maeve blanches at the tone of his voice, speechless with the anxiety that snakes through her belly.

"Forgive me," he says upon seeing her reaction. "I'm not used to dealing with children," he states plainly with a shrug, though he wills his voice to sound calmer. "But I need to know how he fares. The infirmary's locked, I've yet to find any of the healers and Ceridwen seems to have turned in for the night. You're usually wandering around that place supposedly, so I assume you'd know."

"Oh," Maeve begins, taking a deep breath. "Well, there were a few bruises, a small amount of cuts and lacer-lacer…"

"Lacerations?" Agravaine and Cassia say at the same time.

"Aye, that's the word…"

"But that's not all," Agravaine says flatly, cutting her off.

"Ah…no," she begins, voice falling. "H-he broke his ankle," she continues, quickly becoming dismayed at the look of fury beginning to cloud the knight's face. "It was a clean break," she tumbles out. "Better that way…at least it didn't shatter! He'll be walking again within a month. It should…It _will_ heal completely within a fortnight after that if he doesn't work it too hard…"

"Completely unacceptable," Agravaine counters, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"We did all we could!" she exclaims, breath coming in short bursts. "I swear it. We gave him the best care we could. He'll have to listen…" Agravaine suddenly gives her a quizzical look, cocking an eyebrow at her increasingly anxious state, his previous fury seemingly forgotten. Then it dawns on him. "I didn't mean you," he begins, trying his best to sound concerned. This is why he doesn't deal with children, nor have any desire to. Too unstable. "It's not unacceptable what you did, it's what _they_ did…"

"'They?'"

"Never mind," Agravaine sighs, moving from his relaxed stance against the wall. He's been here too long and needs to get back to tavern. The guards will be making their rounds soon over here. "I just needed to know how bad it proved."

"That's all?" Maeve asks.

"I'm not going to kill you or anything," Agravaine retorts. "Settle down."

"Easy for you to say," she mutters. Agravaine pretends not to hear her as he moves to leave the courtyard. He'll have to climb back over the wall, which was a pain in and off itself the first time, considering it's over three-and-a-half meters tall. Thank the gods it's made out of stone, allowing decent crevices for holding onto. "Ehrm…thanks," he says as he starts away.

"Yes," Maeve replies.

"By the way," Agravaine begins, turning around to address them, an odd grin on his face. "You shouldn't be out here by yourselves. As you can see, the premises don't prove terribly secure…"

"To the contrary, knight," a gravelly voice calls out. A Roman soldier suddenly melts out of the shadows just to their opposite side, arrow notched on his bow and pointing right at Agravaine's chest.

"Told you there was more than one here," Cassia whispers to Maeve, a self-satisfied smile on her face. "'Tis alright, Gaius," she then calls out. "He means us no harm. He was just inquiring about his friend."

"Artorius is not my friend, simply my commander," Agravaine warns, eyes on the soldier's arrow.

"Well that's just a noble thing, isn't it?" Gaius replies sarcastically as he pulls his bowstring even more taunt.

"If you shoot him, it'll prove an awful bloody mess to clean up," Cassia laughs.

"You're rather lucky she cares, mate," Gaius says to Agravaine after moment of tense silence. Letting the bowstring go slack and removing the arrow, he makes his way over to the girls. "I would've had an arrow through yer neck as you as soon as you came back over that there wall had the little churl not said anything."

"And for not doing that, I thank you," Agravaine muses. He can't help but feel a tiny bit of respect. There are few able to get the drop on him. Apparently this place was more guarded than he thought; he assumed Ceridwen's bodyguard would've been in bed by now rather than guarding the little imps. No wonder they didn't seem completely terrified at seeing him. Apparently not all Romans were entirely lazy.

"I suggest you go, while you can. The guard will be along that wall in a bit," Gaius nods to the knight, voice hardening. "Next time, wait until morning for your queries, 'cause if you're ever here again at this hour, you'll be getting well acquainted with a good lot of my arrows, make no mistake."

Agravaine mutely nods in understanding. Silently padding over to the wall despite the snow on the ground, he easily climbs it, slipping over the top an out of site. After making sure the knight is gone, Gaius grabs both the girls by the arm, dragging them back into the building.

"You addled in the head, girls?"

"Aye?" Maeve replies, pretending not to understand.

"Talkin' to strangers proves a bad idea all around! You can get hurt, snatched and ransomed, get yer throat slit or worse!" Gaius retorts harshly, causing her to shudder while Cassia simply shrugs in reply. "He was just trying to find out 'bout his friend…" Cassia begins, only to be cut off.

"When Jols and Fabian hear what you two to have been up to, you'll be locked up in here for a month. Nothin' but lessons and such. No going outside to play and all that other foolishness," Gaius counters, causing Maeve to groan.

"That'll get Agravaine flogged…or worse," Cassia replies cryptically. Gaius snorts with derision, though his shoulders slump in defeat. "Fine," he says. "I'll keep it to myself. But I better not catch either of you out here in the yard goofing off or anything of that sort for next fortnight, that knight's back be damned!" He may be a lot of things, but there's no point in getting the knight flogged. Besides, it had been a noble cause he was after. "Am I clear, lasses?"

Maeve nods emphatically, while Cassia shrugs in reply again, a grin of triumph on her lips.

"Now of to bed with you both," he growls, shoving them up the steps to their respective quarters. _I swear to God Almighty, _he thinks to himself as he leaves, heading to his own quarters, _Those ones will be the death of me._

* * *

"And where'd you slither off to?" Dagonet questions across the table. Agravaine silently slips back onto the wooden bench where they sit in the one of taverns. Located on the side of the citadel reserved for the marketplace, it's still lively at this late hour, on account it being the end of week. There will be few duties to attend to and no exercises on account of the Christian Sabbath. Hence the bar is buzzing with Romans, Britons, Sarmatians and others. They self-segregate, the Romans from the mainland on their side of the bar, Sarmatians on the other. A few of the Romanized Britons mingle with some of the Sarmatians, while other, more native Britons sit in their own corner, near the back. Next to them sit those who belong to none of the other groups, mostly various merchants and journeymen. Passing through on their way from place or another, they are holed up in the citadel tonight, mostly on account of the snow. 

"Just needed to fetch a bit of information," Agravaine replies, motioning at one of the barmaids. She saunters over, dark blue eyes sparkling, black hair loose and tumbling down around her shoulders, highlighting her pale skin. Her skirts rustle seductively as she leans over, giving the men a rather attractive view of her bosom. "What can I get you mate?" her dark, smoky voice tumbles out.

"Just a bit of cider," Agravaine murmurs, too distracted by his own thoughts to notice her. She nods in reply, used to his odd ways.

"Anything else, lads?"

"A mug of beer…please," Tristan adds with a nod.

"I'll take what he's having, Brangaine," Palamedes replies, an easy grin on his face as he stares at her chest.

"Eyes up here, love," she chides coolly. "See, the scout here seems able to handle it. Sorry I can't say the same for you," she replies easily, quickly palming the golden coin Palamedes holds in his open palm. "Oh, and thanks for the tip."

"That wasn't the tip, it was the pay," the knight replies easily, too drunk to care. Granted, even if he were sober, he wouldn't be bothered about getting robbed, especially by one this lovely.

"Let 'er have it," Tristan replies, hastily looking up at her from where he's casually cleaning his nails with his dagger. "I would've taken it from you anyway in the game of bones about to begin…"

"Much thanks, Tristan," she intones with a barely perceptible grin. He nods in reply, face remaining impassive save they way his eyes burn as he watches at her. She doesn't look away, holding his inscrutable gaze until she finally nods and heads towards the bar. As she walks away, he still watches her, pulled out of thoughts only by the round of laughter that starts.

"I think Tristan's in love, lads," Dagonet chuckles.

"Shut it," Tristan advises.

"Well, she is one of the few women brave enough to talk to 'im," Palamedes chortles, finishing off the contents of his mug.

"Her father was knight from the mainland, Heraniae says," Dagonet replies with a smirk. "Of course she'd be rather fearless, though dealing with Tristan does prove an exercise in various horrors…"

"Bugger off," Tristan warns, voice flat.

"Don't worry," Palamedes begins with a laugh, "she's a beauty, that much is true."

"'Tis trivial," Tristan mutters. "Get on with the game," he continues. Gareth pulls out the dice, rolling them, and soon, the game us under way. Tristan wins the first round, with Gareth becoming victorious in the second. By the fifth round, Tristan's won twice and Palamedes once, with Dagonet still finding his luck lacking. Agravaine's excused himself from the diversion, choosing instead to mull over his cider.

"You're awful quiet," he hears a female voice say as he stares off into the distance.

"When is he not, Heraniae?" Gareth retorts, a smile on his face at seeing the woman. As per usual, the beer seems to have opened the doors to his more cheerful side, canceling out his usually irritable demeanor.

"As though that's different from the usual," Agravaine retorts, though a grin tugs at the side of his mouth. Heraniae's always proven one of the more tolerable women around the fort, not prone towards idle chatter or histrionics. He doesn't mind her disturbing his thoughts.

"And finally, my good luck charm has arrived!" Dagonet nods, immediately standing and scooping her up into his arms. He plants a sloppy kiss on her mouth, she returning the honors and taking a seat. Sliding her up to him, he wraps an arm around her waist, where it will most likely stay for the rest of the night.

"You're late," he whispers, though it comes out sounding rather loud on account of the drinks he had.

"And you're drunk," she whispers back, giving him a conspiratorial wink, which only causes him to lean in and kiss her on the forehead. "I had to close up the tavern for father," she adds. "Not to mention I had to do a favor for Fabian."

"That brother of yours, making you late! Why of all the impractical things…" he smirks before he gives a little hiccup.

"Don't worry about it," she replies with a smile, tenderly touching her fingers to her mouth to quiet him. "And my god, you are you _drunk_."_  
_

"Forgive me," he replies with a devilish smile. "Nothing to forgive," she nods back. "I like you drunk. Makes you more agreeable," she laughs. "And when am I not agreeable?" he questions, laughing as well. "Let's see," she chuckles, "You weren't so happy this afternoon, after you all got back from the patrol."

The noise of the dice clacking suddenly comes to a stop, Gareth smacking his hand over them. The scraping of cups scratching the table is heard as they simultaneously stop drinking. Various conversations come to a halt, none of them meeting her eyes, save Agravaine, who stares at her as though she's the Devil himself. She suddenly finds herself clutching at Dagonet's hand.

"W-what…have I said?" she intones voice serious as she stares back at Agravaine. "Oh my God, no one was killed, were they?" she groans after some minutes of the ominous silence, voice falling. "Why did no one tell me?" she whispers, nails digging into the edge of table as her shoulders heave with a rush of emotion.

"Nay," Dagonet murmurs, quickly pulling her into his lap and beginning to rub her shoulders, relieving her of some of the tension. "It's just…"

"An accident," Tristan begins. "Artorius," he shrugs.

"_Accident?_" Agravaine growls, slamming his hand onto the table. Despite the noise in the tavern, those at tables closest to them quickly look away, ignoring his outburst. They already know it would prove unwise to antagonize him, especially in these state. "You call _that_ a bloody _accident?_"

"It wasn't murder," Tristan shrugs, beginning to cut up an apple.

"He isn't dead…is he?" Heraniae whispers.

"No, no," Palamedes replies, giving her a mirthless smile. "Simply injured. A broken arm, I believe?"

"Broken ankle," Agravaine counters, his face a murderous mask of fury. "A bloody broken ankle. He'll be unable to do much for at least a month, according to those of the infirmary."

"Oh, then all's well," Heraniae replies with a sigh. Seeing Agravaine's look she quickly continues, "Not for him, I mean. I just thought some poor soul had been killed."

"'Tis ashame," Gareth murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

"It's more than just a damn shame, it's unacceptable. And it wasn't any damn accident. Those bloody gits Pellinore and Lancelot set the whole thing up. Made his horse start."

"And you're surprised because?" Palamedes shrugs.

"I'm not."

"Hold on there a minute," Gareth begins, setting his tankard of ale down on the table. "You came into the fort not giving a damn about anyone or anything, scaring the daylight out of anyone who crossed your path. And now you're suddenly concerned?"

"Frankly I care less about the captain as a person," Agravaine shrugs.

"Liar," Gareth mutters under his breath. Agravaine fixes him with a scowl and then continues.

"Self preservation. The fact of the matter is, as low as we hold the Romans in esteem, the young Artorius proves the least abrasive of them. He's decently intelligent. He contains the aggressive skills of a commander, considering he's yet to be beaten by any of the younger knights in a fair fight. He doesn't prove excessive to when it comes to reprimand, which shows a shockingly long bit of patience considering he's put up with such insubordination…"

"Shows a bit of weakness, don't you think?" Palamedes cuts in.

"To the contrary," Agravaine replies shaking his head. "It illustrates nobility."

"And just what do you know of that, brother?" Gareth counters with a snort.

"Nothing," Agravaine replies matter-of-factly. "But 'tis why I don't run the company and the little Roman does. He's a bit naïve, yes. But that can be trained out. Look," he huffs, "Do any of you really want to go back to the sorts of raging bastards who commanded us before we came here?" No one replies, though they each nod in agreement. "I thought so. You all know, no matter how loathe you are to admit it, if things start escalating and the Latin whelp is put out of commission permanently, they'll hand us over to another. Who? I don't ruttin' know. But do you want to risk someone like Lot? Sure, they may put us under Cai or Bedivere, who prove tolerable for the most part. But that's not a roll of the dice I'm willing take, especially when Artorius' tribulations are the result of a few."

"Where exactly is this going?" Heraniae questions, arching an eyebrow, Dagonet doing the same.

"All I propose is that we deal with the…problems."

"I have no quarrel with that," Tristan replies quickly, finishing cutting up an apple. Everyone pauses, giving the scout a long look of surprise, to which he simply shrugs. "It wastes time, the outright defiance," he continues, popping an apple slice into his mouth. "Getting damned tired of it," he crunches.

Gareth sighs, nodding in agreement. "I think this is the first time we've come an agreement on anything, Agravaine. Do what must be done."

"You all realize that taking care of the…'problem,' as you put it could cause more divisions in the company? I mean, not only do the younger ones despise Artorius, they'll now despise you," Heraniae adds after a moment.

"You plan on telling anyone, love?" Palamedes smirks.

"No," she replies seriously. "It's none of my business frankly. I just thought you all might need the logic of a woman before you do digging yourself into a hole you'll find yourselves unable to climb out of."

"Logic and women?" Tristan questions. "Aren't those two mutually exclusive, yeah?' he finishes with a smirk, causing Heraniae to reach over and snatch the apple slices out of his hand.

"You're lucky it's a good apple. Otherwise, it'd be flying at your head right now," she muses as she pops a piece into her mouth, handing the rest to Dagonet as Tristan arches an eyebrow at her. "But sincerely," she continues, voice becoming serious again. "Even more divisions wouldn't prove the best sort of thing.

"She's got a rather decent line of reasoning," Palamedes intones. "Surprising as it may be." Heraniae rolls her eyes at him.

"It's for their own good," Gareth shrugs. "Even if they can't see it now, once you cut off the head of the snake, the rest of it dies."

"Pellinore has to go then," Dagonet muses slowly. "Fine, I have no issue with it," he says, raising his mug in toast. He's followed by the others, save Palamedes. "Is…there a problem?" he says to the knight with a frown.

"There're a lot of problems," the dark knight laughs uneasily. "But…what's done is done," he says after a while, raising his mug as well. They toast, though all faces around the table are grim, the possible consequences of their undertaking on their minds.

Thus it is official; the line is drawn in the sand, Agravaine and company its official keeper.


	9. Settling of Scores

_All the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours._

**-Phaedrus, Thrace of Macedonia, 15 B.C. – AD 50**

* * *

He rolls over with a yawn, wincing as he glances out the window next to his bed. Seeing that it's still completely dark and that snow is falling just as hard as it was last night, he sighs, dropping back down into the warmth of the blankets and closing his eyes.

"Early to bed and early to rise," Cai had warned him the night before when he and Bedivere stumbled in from the tavern. Bedivere simply giggled in return, his customary stoicism completely destroyed in the face of the numerous tankards of cider. Artorius struggled to hold the taller, heavier soldier up, biting his lip and holding back his own laughter. By God, he was drunk. Didn't that prove a sin of some sort? To hell with it.

"Of course," Artorius replied with a nod, his head swimming from the motion. Cai simply chuckled in return, spinning around the young commander and sending him off in the direction of his rooms. "You'll be in a terrible way come morning," he warned with a snort, causing Artorius to simply nod in reply. He stumbled off to his quarters, but not before shoving Bedivere into his own lodgings down across the hall.

As per usual, Cai had proven right. Yet again.

Mumbling to himself and ignoring the steady knock at his door, Artorius turns over and attempts to bury himself in his blankets. It does nothing to stop the increasingly loud knocking at his door. "By all that is holy and pure, Go away!" he groans. In all of his sixteen seasons, he's never felt so much throbbing pain rushing through his head as he does now.

"Forgive me, m'lord Artorius," comes the resolute reply of his squire, who has let himself in anyway, along with two of the serving women.

"Sir," the older one says lightly with a nod, placing the bowl of fresh water on the table and motioning for the other one to place the tray of food beside it. The young girl does so, giving a nod of respect and leaving after reigniting the dying embers in the fireplace. "Will you need anything else, sir?" the serving woman says as Artorius turns over to face them. "Perhaps something for…your situation, yeah?" Is that a smirk on her face?

"Something for this hangover, perchance?" the young captain grits out.

"Aye sir," she replies, producing a vial of liquid from the pockets of her apron as she and his squire exchange knowing looks. "Just use all of this in your drink. The pain should subside in a bit," she replies, voice becoming slightly more sympathetic. "May I fetch anything else?"

"No," he grunts. "'Tis all. Many thanks."

"Of course, my lord," she says, bowing her head. Turning on her heel, she disappears out of the room.

"And how did you get the key to the room?" Artorius snorts, watching as his squire sets it on the table.

"I've got my methods," he replies with grin.

"And does the whole citadel know that I am in a bad way after last knight, Cador?" Artorius growls, sitting up and watching as his squire dumps the contents of the vial into his drink

"No, Artorius," Cador replies with a smirk, handing him the goblet. "I just figured as much when I saw you were not in when I went finally turned in for the night. Not to mention Cai pointed it out it in passing this morning. I had to make sure you would be up, right and ready to go for the drills in the courtyard…"

"Wonderful," Artorius replies with a moan, knocking back the entire contents of the goblet. Wincing at the taste of the stuff, he sets it back on the table and gets up from bed, testing his ankle. It's been a little more than a month and it seems almost healed, save for a slight twinge of pain as he rests his full weight on it. He lets out a mild gasp of surprise as his feet make contact with the cold stones of the floor, groaning again as he finally stands up. Quickly washing his face and hands with the water from the bowl, he struggles to slip into his under tunic and pull on his leather riding trousers over his breeches, Cador moving to hand him his chain mail, cuirass and the rest of his armor.

"Please, not yet," Artorius begs off, waving away the squire as he settles in at the table and starts to eat. Cador simply shrugs, sitting down next his lord, readjusting his position in the chair so that his sits with a leg folded under himself.

"We've only a few minutes before they're expecting you, Artorius. We must be down at half-way past the 5th hour…" he begins.

"Oh really?" Artorius replies archly, raising an eyebrow in disbelief as his eyes flit over him. Of course Cador would all ready be completely dressed, armor shining and in place, entirely prepared to report at any moment's notice. It still completely baffles him how his own page always proves better prepared for every situation than he is.

"Well…more like an hour," Cador smirks, dark blue eyes twinkling in the dim light from the candles placed about in the room as he filches a bit of bread from the tray, taking a large bite of it. "But you need to have enough time for the remedy to settle in," he continues, mouth full. "Especially considering today is the monthly review of the unit."

"Christ!" Artorius groans. Of all the days to be in such a state, he had to pick the morning the Legatus Legionis, Constinian, will actually be there. This would not go well at all, especially considering part of his troops have proven far too close to mutiny. Their overt disregard his or anyone else's (but especially his) authority has been going on for four months now. Nothing seems to curtail it, from the cut rations, to the endless drills, to the revoking of various privileges. It is as though the ringleaders of the whole plot are impervious to such things, their resolution creating division. Lot wished to flog the whole group of them a few weeks back. But Artorius refused to give his consent, believing such things were unnecessary at this point…or any other. He thought the harsh winter months would tone it down, if only because staying out the courtyard for such long periods of time during various punishments held the threat of them catching cold and even dying from the sickness. "I'll not have my men flogged," he reiterated to the Praefectus Castrorum. He swore he heard Lot mutter something about "Rutting martyr," as he stalked away but he wasn't close enough to be sure.

Artorius gives a sigh of defeat as the thinks on what he will do to quell the men's apparently arbitrary objections to him. As he takes another bite into the warm bread and tears off a piece of the tender honeyed ham, he's somewhat guiltily comforted by the fact that not sharing the barracks with them does sometimes have its up side.

As commander of the new unit of knights, Artorius had been immediately told of his right to his own quarters. At first he turned it down. But Bedivere quickly reassured him of its benefits; he would be sharing the private quarters with he, Cai and Cai's his father Ectorian. It allowed Artorius time away from the various distractions of life in the more shabby side of the camp. It also let him to focus on his studies of strategy and government under Ectorian, who's loyally served rather exceptionally under Uther. Not to mention, it resulted in unforeseen outcome of the old soldier becoming a foster-father of sorts. And no one could have asked for a better foster-brother than the ever-cheery yet exceedingly competent Cai. Then, there was the fact that they had run of the larders, their own rooms, a squire each at their beck and call, and various servants to ensure the running of the household (Ectorian's wife had died long ago, leaving her Keeper of the House, Lavinia, in charge. She was an elderly if austere woman, her deep brown eyes constantly narrowed in concentration, her attention always focused on ensuring her employers could keep their own focus on their "silly war games," as she called it, rather than the mundane tasks that came with keeping a home). At first, Artorius proved entirely uncomfortable with living away from his men. Frankly, the concept of it still bothered him, his ideals of equality and fraternity among them constantly nagging at back of his mind. But Constinian carefully told him of the real issue, as after all these years he still could not condone such distance from his own troops either; however if Artorius did not move into the officers' quarters, the other Romans would not trust him, for he would be viewed as becoming too familiar with the men. Such a thing could breed ridiculous rumors that he proved loyal to only himself and his men, rather than the glory of the empire. Hence, in the end, he was indirectly forced to move into the rather comfortable residences.

So here now he sits, alone in his quarters, save his squire, who always seems to follow him like a shadow on the wind despite his constant efforts to shoo him away. "…which is why you'll need to be dressed and ready, Artorius," he hears Cador suddenly finish, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Cador?" he asks after a while, thoughts turning back to the present.

"Aye, m'lord?"

"I think I've run out of the number of times I've said that you need not call me by 'm'lord' or 'Artorius.' Simply call me by my first name, 'Lucius,' like the rest of the family does."

"But…"

"By all that is holy, we've known each other since birth almost. We're cousins for god-sakes!"

"That may be, but I am still your squire. Besides, I owe you my life."

"You would have done the same for me on the road here…"

"Aye. But I did not, whereas you did."

"Well…" Artorius thinks. That had proved true. On the road to the citadel, most of the way through the long trip, there had been the unexpected attack on the caravan by the Woads. Luckily no one was killed. But Cador had almost been trampled by his horse when the poor animal had taken an arrow, knocking his rider off his saddle in the midst of its rather horrifying death throes. Arthur had slid from his own horse in a panic, instinctively yanking his cousin by his collar from under the thrashing animal. That's when he felt the fiery sting of the barbed arrow as it grazed it his wrist, dangerously close to the artery and landing in the spot where Cador's head been only a few seconds before. Cador had looked up at him, eyes wide in shock, through the rest of his face remained oddly blank. It was quite contrary to the look of fear etched onto Artorius' face. As the Roman soldiers sent their own arrows of death into the bushes into the direction of where the attack had come from, the two could hear the terrifying yells of the other knights (all of whom remained on horseback despite the frenzied scene around them) as they chased after the Woads. That day, both men pledged an oath to themselves: Artorius swore to learn the infinitely superior horsemanship of the men under his charge, while Cador swore to protect his cousin's life as though it were his own. It was the least he could do. And it would finally prove a worthy way to pay back all that Uther had done for them after he had taken their family in. Once Cador's father found himself too injured to carry on life as a career soldier at the wall, none of his family had ever wanted for anything under his brother Uther's watch. Just as Artorius would never want for anything under his current watch.

"Still," Artorius continues. "'Tis odd that you call me by such a formal name." Cador shrugs nonchalantly as he gets up from his chair.

"You wouldn't want to be accused of favoritism," he easily replies as he begins preparing pieces of his captain's armor. "So I will continue to refer you in such a formal manner."

"Fine," Artorius replies with a sigh, finishing off the last of his breakfast. "How can one with just fourteen seasons be so damned stubborn?" he mutters, causing Cador to give a self-satisfied smirk. "Just…don't do it when we have no audience," the captain continues, louder this time. "It's curious," he finishes as Cador nods distractedly, helping Artorius into his mail and then his cuirass, setting his bracers and greaves on the table.

"Whatever you say," Cador replies. "You know, some of this so-called stubbornness may come in handy when dealing with that defiant lot this morning," he retorts.

"We'll need more than that," Artorius counters, suddenly groaning as the cuirass causes the mail to shift against some of his old bruises despite his under tunic.

"Sometimes I wished you just would have them flogged already..." Cador says, noticing the grunt of pain

"What, so they step it up to attempting to murder me rather than the usual method of injury? Very good idea."

"You and your infernal patience. Oh well, let us pray that the review goes off without too many disasters."

"It's all in God's hand now," Artorius mutters as he finishes dressing. Cador hands him his cloak, ensuring his captain is protected against the cold of snow on this dark morning. The squire then double checks that his own armor is properly clasped an in place, Artorius double checking as well. Leaving the room, with Cador trailing his slightly limping form as per usual, Artorius makes his way down to the courtyard, various prayers of deliverance running through his head.

* * *

"This is going to be disastrous," Agravaine mutters out the side of his mouth as he takes in the scene of the knights ambling about aimlessly before him. Calogrenant nods in reply, wiping the specks of snow out his blonde hair. The rather massive knight nervously shifts his weight from one foot to the other as the rest of the company mills around in the courtyard. "Lord Artorius will be down in a few minutes and bastards haven't even made any move to even attempt to take up their positions," Agravaine continues exasperatedly. "Have they no respect?"

"Funny, I would've though the same of you, what with all the insane muttering and you seemed to be doing on the road here," Calogrenant replies. His tone is polite, even a little giddy as he continues fidgeting back and forth, toying with handle of his spear and straightening his collar. By now, Agravaine has become used to the large knight's constant anxious little twitches. If pressed, he'd even say they were strangely charming in their own oddly jittery way. But he's in no mood to be charming right now.

"You know nothing of me," Agravaine replies, edge in his voice.

"Then why do you defend the captain so much?"

"He is a man of honor, 'tis all," Agravaine counters with a shrug, voice still hard as his pale gray eyes narrow. "He's done nothing wrong and has never sought to impose his beliefs or the culture of his Roman dogs upon us. He goes out of his way to ensure we have the best of supplies, sometimes even better than his Roman brethren. And he's yet to have any of this sorry lot flogged. All he asks is that we trust and remain loyal to him. And yet, they still continue to mock him!" The steadily increasing anger in his voice surprises even him.

"What do you expect of them?" Calogrenant counters. "They've been made to serve a debt that's not even theirs…"

"That's beside the point," Agravaine sneers. "Do you think Artorius wishes to be here?" he says, suddenly whipping around to face Calogrenant. "You've seen him pouring over his scrolls or writing down his stories and such when he thinks no one is looking. He's a scholar, not a warrior," he continues with a nod, voice rising. "You can see it in those serious eyes of his. He's rather be home or in Ravenna, in front of a roaring fire, reading over some of the archaic philosophical ramblings of his people while he's being attended to by a pretty Roman wife, with their gaggle of boring, ever-so-pious children running around his feet."

"You really think it so?" Calogrenant says, swallowing slowly and becoming alarmed by the increasingly frenzied sound of his friend's voice.

"Hmph. I _know_," Agravaine replies scornfully. "He contains no soldierly streak of cruelty, no? There's no tell-tale gleam of insanity in his eye as he lives to see us suffer! He only does it out of duty to his dead father. Just as we should," Agravaine counters, voice almost to a yell. "But no. Instead, we act like some pathetic assortment of damned whiny women! Refusing to follow orders, causing trouble, and generally invoking the shame of our ancestors!" By now he's shouting, causing a few of the knights milling about to stop and look at him, a mixture of curiosity and fear on their faces. He's never exactly been considered one of the more stable knights. And this sudden outburst is certainly doing nothing to change that.

"You heard me!" Agravaine continues, waving his spear in his building rage, causing even Calogrenant to take a few steps back. "You're all an insult to your ancestors!" he shouts, face turning red, sweat beading on his brow. "Shame and curses upon you all! Wretches! Miscreants! Scoundrels!"

"That's enough, _Agravaine_," the one called Pellinore says, suddenly stepping in front of the knight. Seeing the green eyed, dark haired man in front of him, Agravaine swiftly goes quiet, though his eyes narrow even more. Giving him a once over, he suddenly throws back his head and lets out a cackle of contempt, his crazed laughter echoing in the dark, causing Calogrenant to back away even more as some of the other knights gather around the scene brewing in front of them.

"And why should I heed you, you cur?" Agravaine spits. "You're the ringleader of this whole thing…"

"You need to watch your mouth…" Pellinore replies with a sneer, his hand immediately going to the blade of his dagger, his other hand curling into a fist. He's only slightly taller than the lanky Agravaine, but still quite a bit heavier. But that doesn't seem to stop the other knight. He suddenly tenses, subtly shifting his weight as though he's preparing himself to pounce, a cat effortlessly toying with his prey.

"Or what? You'll sick these weaklings on me to do your bidding as you do with Artorius?" he continues.

"Shut-up!"

"Can't face the truth, eh, Pells?"

"Your mouth is going to be the death of you…" There's the distinct sound of metal scratching on metal as Pellinore lightly flicks the top of his dagger out of its sheath.

"Particularly heady words coming from you. Is Lancelot around as well?" Agravaine retorts, looking around. "The gods know you don't have enough brains on your own to carry out such a threat, so you'll call on your other minions…"

"I swear by the gods, I'll end you!"

"Shocking, such words coming from a coward."

Without warning, Pellinore suddenly lashes out, his balled fist flying towards Agravaine's face, his other hand bringing up the dagger to strike. But it never gets there, for Agravaine's easily ducks the swing as his hand swiftly snatches Pellinore's arm, applying pressure to a point in his wrist that causes his hand to involuntarily jerk and open, dropping his dagger. In the meantime, Agravaine's other hand holds his own dagger, which has managed to mysteriously make its way out of its sheath and is now pointing at the other knight's belly.

"You had better be glad," Agravaine's grits out between clenched teeth as he applies increasing pressure to Pellinore's wrist. "That your hand," he continues, applying further pressure, causing Pellinore to begin to sweat. "Did _not_ connect," he goes on, suddenly jerking back the younger knight's hand in the opposite direction to his wrist, causing him to gasp in pain. "With my rather pretty face…stay back!" he suddenly yells at Lancelot, who's been attempting to sneak up on the side of them. Pushing the dagger so that it now most definitely pokes into Pellinore's stomach, causing the knight to whimper in further alarm, a wicked leer comes to Agravaine's face.

"You wouldn't want my hand to slip, would ye?" he says, voice suddenly dropping to a dangerous growl. Lancelot blanches, hands in the air in surrender as he slowly backs up.

"That's enough, Agravaine," Calogrenant whispers. "Please…"

"Come now, Calogrenant. Don't go soft on me now," Agravaine replies calmly, though he still retains his increasingly murderous hold on Pellinore.

"C'mon then. He gets it…"

"No, no, he does not. Some of us are more hard-headed than others."

"It's just not…the most fair of positions to be in…"

"Who say anything about fair, _Calogrenant?_ After all, if life were fair, none of us would be here right now, would we?" Agravaine retorts, voice rising to a shrill yell, causing the circle of knights surrounding them to suddenly take multiple steps back. Calogrenant does the same, head dropping in defeat.

"Now," Agravaine says, voice suddenly dropping to a dead calm, his attention going back to the knight he holds captive. "Where were we? Oh yes," he continues as though suddenly remembering. "My pretty face, right? Now, again," he says, applying renewed pressure on the captive knight's hand as he pushes it back further towards his wrist, causing Pellinore to let out another louder exhalation of pain. "You are rather lucky you didn't strike me. Or else, I'd be forced to cut off your hand right here. Instead," he grits out. "I shall be merciful. Isn't that what the Romans and their lovely Christianity teach us? The wonder and compassion of Mercy and her angels? Pellinore, why don't you speak up?"

"Y-yes! Mercy! They t-tell of mercy! M-mercy?" Pellinore stutters out, breath coming out in short bursts at the pain of his hand slowly being forced back to his wrist and the fact that the dagger point of his opponent is dangerously close to slicing through his skin.

"Aye, my lamb. Mercy. So you see, I won't cut off your hand," Agravaine replies evenly, letting off a little of the pressure. "Shouldn't you thank me?"

"Thank you!"

"I can't quite hear you…"

"T-thank you, m'lord Agravaine!"

"Ah, thank _you_, Pellinore, for allowing me to show the good people here the concept of mercy. I shall stay true to my word and not cut off your hand. Too much blood you see. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not quite the rumored savage that some of you speak of. I contain the sacred virtue of mercy after all, yes? However…"

Suddenly Pellinore's screams rip through the air. But they are not loud enough to cover out the sound of the sickening crack that fills it as well as Agravaine savagely shoves back Pellinore's hand completely, effectively breaking the knight's wrist in one horrendously smooth move.

"I do not forget, Pells," Agravaine continues, backing away as Pellinore falls to his knees, still screaming as he grabs his flopping hand. Most of the knights rush to his aid, save a few of the older ones who cling to the edges of the fray. "Just as you shall never forget, Pellinore," Agravaine continues coolly, sheathing his dagger. "Everyday that your precious sword-hand is bound up and you find yourself unable to participate in the little skirmishes in the practice ring that you use to attack your captain," he goes on. "You shall never forget the one who showed you the same mercy, done unto you just as you do unto him!"

"As for the rest of you," the young knight continues to the rest of the crowd. "I have things to do, so this drill and review had better go off without one bloody damned hitch! Or I swear, the same fate will befall the lot of you." A murmur of agreement flies through the crowd as Agravaine walks away.

"You're mad!" Lancelot mutters as he shoves pass Agravaine, trying to make his way to Pellinore, who still kneels crumbled on the ground, his screams beginning to turn into pitiful whimpers.

"And you're fortunate I don't do the same you right here and right now," Agravaine retorts, snatching up Lancelot by the collar and all but dragging him off his feet. "As I said," he continues. "Should anything go wrong with the drills or review today on account of you and your lot purposely fouling it up in an attempt to undermine Artorius, thus resulting in punishment for the whole company, the same fate will befall you. I swear it on my dead ancestors."

"So that's the way it's gonna be, eh?" Lancelot sneers.

"That's the way it _shall_ be," Agravaine sneers back, though he sets Lancelot back on his feet. Suddenly the older knight leans over, grabbing Lancelot by the collar again and whispering into his ear, "Your friendship in the beginning of this whole nightmare was truly a gift. And I thought you'd be better than the rest of 'em," Agravaine murmurs, voice suddenly full of disappointment. "You should be the best knight here, young pup," he continues with a hiss. "Fighting with strength, honor and courage. Instead, you're no better than a petulant child, a shame to your tribe and ancestors" he finishes, quickly shoving the shocked younger knight away.

"This isn't the end of this!" Lancelot scoffs after regaining his balance. "You cannot protect your precious Roman all the time!"

Agravaine quickly turns around, fixing the younger knight with a withering look that immediately causes him to go completely silent. After a moment, Lancelot looks away. Agravaine gives a sneer of derision, spinning on his heal and wandering off to join the older knights who remain on the edges of the company.

"Bastard," Lancelot mutters, going over to Pellinore.

"I see we woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, yeah?" Tristan says coolly, still observing the frenzied scene as Agravaine comes to a stop next to him and a few of the older knights who have stayed out of the fray. By now, Pellinore's on his feet, a few of the knights leading him away to the infirmary. The others begin quickly taking the familiar positions of the standard formation used during inspections. A few of the braver ones look in Agravaine's direction, their shocked whispers floating on the air. However, many refuse to even look at him, fear of attracting his attention overriding their horrified curiosity.

"You'd have done the same, scout," he mutters in reply to Tristan as he leans back against the wall.

"Aye, but not in front of all these people. The best hunt is when the prey is taken completely unaware."

"Since when is subtlety his strong point?" Palamedes counters with an tight laugh as Gareth nods in agreement, though his serious eyes still warily watch Agravaine.

"You mean to tell me you're not tired of their childish games of insubordination?" Agravaine asks, genuine confusion in his voice.

"I am," Tristan replies. "Bloody frustrated with the whole situation frankly. But I'd rather them learn on their own. As much as breaking bones proves appealing, the lack of subtlety is bothersome," he retorts.

"Sometimes, such displays prove worth their weight in gold, though," Gareth counters in his usual deliberate fashion. "Who wants to place wagers on the fact that the formation will be _perfect_ today" he continues with a shrug.

"He has a point, he does," Dagonet replies, his own face thoughtful.

"Of course I do," Gareth counters. "It will be nice to get something else done today rather than standing around at attention in this infernal courtyard, on punishment yet again for some egregious infraction caused by those insurgent little snots."

"Assuming everything goes off without any issue," Tristan drawls.

"Oh, it will. Especially after that little display of barbarism," Gareth replies lightly, waggling his eyebrows in amusement. "Thanks for that little performance, brother. At least the morning didn't get off to its usual dull start."

"You're welcome, you little git," Agravaine shrugs, mindlessly picking the dirt out of his nails with the point of his dagger.

"What about retribution?" Dagonet says aloud, face clouding with further concern. "Pellinore will not take this lightly..."

"Did you see his face?" Palamedes questions with a snort. "He was terrified. Sometimes it does prove better to maim rather than kill. He'll remember Agravaine every time his wrist click-clacks, signaling the coming rain." Palamedes' simple statement causes Dagonet to lose it, his laughter tearing through the courtyard. Even Agravaine and Gareth fail to hide their smirks, tears coming to their eyes as they rock with suppressed laughter.

"You're deranged!" Dagonet laughs.

"I thought that was this one," Tristan retorts, nodding to Agravaine. "I'm the assassin of the lot. Just as lethal, but with less of a homicidal tendency towards aggravated assault."

"You're right," Dagonet counters. "Have you heard, Agravaine?" he says, throwing an arm about the knight's shoulders "Your brains are positively addled, mate!"

"I've heard rumors," Agravaine says, eyes bright as his mouth curls into a feral grin.

"You had better watch yourself," Gareth adds with a snort. "He's liable to snap your wrist. Or something equally dreadful."

"You're all loony," Tristan mutters. "Enough of that now," he says, voice suddenly serious, eyes shifting over to the stairs. "Here comes Lord Artorius, along with Constinian," he murmurs.

Tristan whistles a warning, causing the knights to suddenly come to attention, the scout watching with appreciation as the rest of the company swiftly follows suit. Though evidence of the previous conflict has been completely cleared away, the younger knights still nervously watch the older ones, following their lead to the letter. No one wishes to incur the wrath of any of them, especially the pale, grey-eyed knight who seems to have eyes in the back of his head.

Gareth is right. The inspection of the company goes off flawlessly, all formations executed impeccably and with little fanfare. Apparently such displays of the previously occurring barbarism _are_ worth their weight in gold.


	10. Rebellion

He audibly groans as the other knight's foot connects with his ribs. The crowd around them groans as well, a couple of them booing in derision, others muttering about the shamefully cheap shot, though a few of them whistle in approval. Funny how he could see it coming, as though in slow motion. But there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, if only because the kick comes so fast and out of nowhere that he's caught by surprise. He files that away for later. _Never be caught by surprise_, he thinks. _It can lead to your death_. Or at least what feels like a possibly cracked rib or two right now.

"Get up, _Lord Castus_," the other knight spits, dark eyes full of unmitigated malice. "We wouldn't wish our precious commander to go out injured for another week now would we?" he sneers, reeling back his foot for another blow. But the prone young captain on the ground suddenly wheels away, this time ready for vicious kick. Quickly attempting to get his feet, he stumbles back as he rapidly blinks back the dark spots bubbling up his line of vision. He gasps at the pain in his side, wiping away the line of blood that drips down his temple, and wincing as he attempts to open his almost swollen shut black eye, all the products of earlier low blows that definitely played outside the rules of the sparring. But it doesn't stop him from swiftly bringing up his sword and easily blocking his opponent's nasty swipe across his chest, which is a good thing. Again, it is the last practice of the week, meaning both men are using real weaponry. God knows it can do a serious amount of damage, despite the fact they're both in full armor. Especially when so brutally wielded by the fuming young knight he's currently facing in the practice ring. He easily blocks another brutal blow from his opponent, but not before he finds himself on the receiving end of an elbow to chest. It knocks the wind out of him, the jolt almost causing him to hyperventilate and faint from the lack of oxygen getting to his brain. Yet another one of the many of obviously cheap blows doled out to him sends concerned murmurs through most of the crowd. _That ain't right_, he even hears one of legionnaires mutter just outside the ring.

"Rogue," he mutters after he takes a gasp of breath, gritting his teeth against the sting, frankly more angry at the fact that he expected his opponent to play fair rather than the hit itself. It has been like this for months, since they first arrived at the citadel. From the start, he's found himself on the receiving end of various cheap shots and low blows, both in and outside the ring. Even the beginning of a new year hasn't tired any of them out. He's been to the infirmary more times than he can count. Once, it even involved a case of food poisoning, through it proved odd no one else seemed to get it. And of course, there is that time at the tavern someone hurled the wooden cup at the back of his head, damn near splitting it open. No one seems to know who did that either, despite the fact that he was surrounded only by members of his own company.

To be honest, he would not mind it so much, were it not be so blatantly from his own men. A little discretion never hurt anyone. To some degree, it is to be expected of these angry Sarmatians, so far away from home, forced into a blood debt as a result of the actions of their long-dead ancestors. Of course they have a right to be irate, resentful and even probably be looking to kill him. He has no idea of what he would do were he in the same situation. Probably the same, frankly. But just as well, he is also getting god-damned tired of suffering in silence, letting them take out their vengeance on him all in the name of being an honorable and principled commander. Patience is a virtue, God knows. But dealing with this lot would cause even the most saintly of men to fall. _An eye for an eye_, he'd hear his father say on those rare occasions when he was home from the fort. _These wild men of the steppes will never respect you until they know you are willing to bleed with and die for them and their sins_. Some say his father had a God complex, attempted to put himself up on that cross along side the Savior. It is almost heretical, frankly. But he knows it is simply the fact that Uther loved his men enough to heed their loyalty. And, as he predicted to his own son so long ago as they sat in front of fireplace, son watching father clean that beautiful sword of his, Uther did end up dying for them. The burial mound right next to his own men in the graveyard at the back of this very citadel is proof of that.

The decidedly deadly whooshing noise of his opponent's sword spinning through the air brings him back to the present as he uses all his willpower to ignore the slashes of pain that grip his chest every time he takes a deep breath. Seeing that the other knight uses the high guard of one on the offensive and slashes downward, he feints to the left, directly into the path of the other sword. This move of insanity causes his opponent to falter, giving him enough time to effortlessly slide to right, whacking the flat of his sword into his chest and then whipping around and cutting behind himself to slash across his stomach in one smooth motion. It's an old trick his father taught him, and he's glad to finally put it to use. If only to see the usual look of pure malevolent conceit suddenly fade from his opponent's face as he looses his footing and stumbles backwards. Taking this new opening, Artorius swings his sword, slashing down again, and cutting him across the hand, causing a fine line of blood to appear along the fresh slice. Swinging the flat of his sword like a club, he connects with his knees, causing them to buckle. He then hits him across the shoulder, the unexpected force of the blow causing his opponent him to drop his sword. Using the hilt of his weapon, he strikes him across the chest, causing the other knight to groan in pain and fall onto his back, completely at his mercy. Artorius points sword at his neck, putting the sharp tip of it under his chin, forcing the young knight to look up at him.

"You yield, Lancelot?" It's growled out as more of a statement rather than a question, the completely unexpected underpinnings of malice in his voice causing looks of confusion to flash across most of the crowd's faces. Even Lancelot's usual constant sneer of blatant contempt for his captain disappears for a moment, a few murmurs of approval coming from the crowd. Artorius, holding back a gasp of pain as he breathes, feeling the blood trickle down the side of his face and looking at him through his good eye, is tired of giving his opponents the benefit of the doubt. He's done with questions.

"I have to do so," Lancelot scoffs, quickly regaining what little is left of his composure. "Wouldn't want to be accused of mutiny, now would I?"

Artorius says nothing, face remaining impassive, though his green eyes darken. With concern or rage, Lancelot doesn't know. However, he suddenly realizes he doesn't wish to see what happens if it proves the latter.

Holding his sword under his knight's chin for a bit longer, Artorius suddenly withdraws, tossing his sword to the ground and holding out his arm to help his opponent to his feet despite the pain shooting through it. Lancelot snorts in derision, scooting from under him and getting to his feet on his own. "At least you seem able to unarm me," he sniffs. "'Tis the least to be expected of our illustrious commander," he spits.

"If you say so," Artorius replies evenly, though his eyes are still narrowed. As Lancelot brushes himself off, he finds himself backing away from his commander. Something in those wretched eyes of Castus hints at a deeper, unexpected fury. Shocking in such a usually passive sort. Maybe the attempted second kick to the ribs _was_ a bit excessive. But it still doesn't change a damned thing. He's still a bloody, and apparently saintly Roman, while he still remains a Sarmatian, tithed to these imperialistic bastards.

Lancelot makes no move to pick up his sword and hand it over to Artorius, as is the usual sign of submission. Rather he kicks it over to his commander. Artorius does nothing, still standing there, holding his subordinate's hateful gaze. After a while, Lancelot breaks the stare, suddenly turning away, bringing his injured hand to his mouth to stop the sting of the slash across it. As he leaves the ring, his captain reaches down to pick up his sword. But he cannot complete the task, letting out a groan of pain and leaving the sword on the ground. "You might want to get that looked at," the Lancelot says, not bothering to turn around. "After all, I wouldn't want to be accused of attempting to murder you," he continues, the contempt in his voice evident.

"Same with your hand. Considering that's your sword arm, God knows what'll happen once you're disarmed within the space of a few minutes again, knight." _Knight_. The way Artorius' mouth subtly slides around the word, it's as though the bearer of the title is completely unworthy of carrying it. "After all," Artorius continues, voice hardening, "I wouldn't want to be accused of not giving you the proper training and thus indirectly murdering _you_."

"Who said anything of murder?" Lancelot retorts, spinning around face him. "Romans don't do _that_. They're far too _civilized_ after all."

"Said like a true barbarian." Artorius regrets the rash words as soon as he's said them. But he's too infuriated and in too much pain to care right now. "And I believe you mentioned murder first."

"Just like you to accuse me of insubordination!"

"I said nothing of the sort…"

"Oh, of course not. You're too wily for that. You've better ways of wasting our lives for the next fifteen god-damned years!"

"Contrary to the popular beliefs of you knights, no."

"'Tis just like you to throw our positions back in our faces!"

"No one said anything of anyone's position. And I've no control over that…"

"The hell you don't! Our lives are not ours to live…"

"So you think."

"As though you give a rutting damn!" Lancelot retorts.

"I don't," Artorius shrugs, completely exasperated, his patience at an end. "I just want payment on the life that belongs to _Rome_," he spits. Again, the regret comes flooding back. But he has no time to dwell on it as the other knight rushes towards him, throwing a well aimed blow in the direction of his head. He sidesteps the blow with little fanfare, but has no time to pick up his own sword, Lancelot quickly sweeping in and picking up his own weapon as the crowd gasps in a mixture of fascination and shock. Making a wide arc with his sword, Lancelot yells in frustration as he fails to connect with any part of his captain's body, for Artorius, despite all his injuries, still proves faster. Winding his way back and forth between Lancelot's swings, he tunes out the sound of the yelling and gasping crowd, waiting patiently for the other knight's rage to cloud his judgment. He doesn't have to wait long, for Lancelot's strokes quickly become too wide, leaving numerous openings. Artorius then unexpectedly whips around and drops to the ground, grabbing his sword and jumping back up. Slashing up and then crashing his arm down, he first knocks the sword out of the other knight's hand with ease, then slamming a vicious blow into his chest. He swings around, cutting downwards again, purposely swinging the flat of the sword across Lancelot's shins, causing the knight to curse as he legs involuntarily give way and he falls to his knees. But Artorius is not done, the absolute rage in his eyes unmistakable and deadly. Suddenly he tosses to the sword to his other hand, flipping it so he holds it by its not-quite-so-dull blade, completely oblivious to the burning feel of metal cutting into flesh, the blood from the injury running freely down his hand. Violently swinging the butt of the sword, he knocks Lancelot in the head, the sickeningly dull crack of the metal pommel connecting soundly with his skull ringing in the air. The brutal blow causes the other knight's eyes to roll to the back of head as he immediately topples over, face down in the dirt as the crowd falls completely silent, wholly shocked by the captain's unprecedented ruthlessness.

"That's ENOUGH!" Lot roars, attempting to push his way through the stunned crowd as Bors and Pellinore rush to Lancelot's side. Bors drops to his knees, rolling Lancelot over so that he's face up. He is still out cold, blood slowly seeping down the side of his bruised temple and into the dirt.

"He breathes still," Bors hisses after a while as he lifts his ear from listening for Lancelot's breath. "His heart still beats as well," he says with relief almost to himself as he withdraws his hand from Lancelot's chest. Pellinore, trying to shake Lancelot awake with his good hand, casts a look of unfettered malice at Artorius, who completely ignores him.

"'Tis the least he deserves!" Agravaine retorts as he makes his way over to Artorius, followed by Gareth. "He's fortunate he isn't taken out back and flogged!" he continues, face contorted into a chilling sneer, pale gray eyes on fire and voice dripping with murderous intent as he moves to support Artorius, who stumbles, his sword dropping from his hand. His breath is labored, a mixture of sweat and blood dripping down his brow as he looks away from Pellinore. In the meantime, Cador has pushed his way through the crowd, running up and grabbing Artorius around the shoulders, doing his best to support the taller man.

"'Tis alright, Cador," Artorius rasps, trying to steady his breathing, though his eyes are still locked on the prone form of Lancelot.

"The hell it is!" the squire counters. "He tried to kill you and…"

"It was only sparring."

"He still tried to harm you!" Cador replies with a screech. Seeing his captain's bloodied hand, he lets out a gasp of dismay. Artorius' ruby signet ring is slowly slipping off, helped along by the fresh blood. Cador attempts to slide it off so that it doesn't fall to ground and become lost in the fray.

"Must you always try to defend me?" Artorius croaks, closing his eyes to stop the scene in front of him from spinning, flexing his fingers so that Cador can get the ring off. He does, tucking it into his pouch for safekeeping.

"Considering it is my duty, yes!" the young legionnaire retorts.

"It's all our duty frankly!" Agravaine continues. "Though this lot will never get _that_," he spits at the other twelve or so younger knights who now surround Lancelot. Some of them look shocked, the younger ones slightly horrified (though they try to hide it), while a few others cast looks of what can only be described as highly malicious at Artorius. Dagonet and Tristan break away from the group, coming over to their commander's side. Palamedes joins them as well

"You really did quite a number on that one, yeah?" Dagonet says almost proudly, shooing Cador and Agravaine out of the way. Throwing one arm around Artorius' waist and taking the captain's arm around his own shoulders, he easily supports his weight, keeping him from stumbling yet again.

"Is he…?" Artorius mutters, eyes opening suddenly.

"Dead? Nah, unfortunately not. That one will be fine, though he will be feeling quite the headache for the next few days, the son of a whore," Tristan replies in his usual clipped tones as he produces a clean rag, which he now quickly uses to wrap around his captain's sliced-up hand. As he does this, across the ring, Lancelot's eyes finally flutter open. Bors tries to get him to his feet, dragging him up by the arms. But the injured knight stumbles with a groan, falling back onto the ground, Bors attempting to help him up again.

"You've gone too far this time, mate," Bors mutters to Lancelot, clucking his tongue in reproach. "That temper 'o yours is gonna get you killed!" Lancelot doesn't respond. Only after some long seconds is he able to finally get to his feet, though he only manages to stand with the assistance of Bors and Pellinore, an arm slung around each of their shoulders.

"He threw the first blow," Palamedes says with a shrug watching the scene across from them. "It's the least he deserves."

Bors and Pellinore quickly move to get Lancelot out of the ring and towards the infirmary. But they have to cross Artorius' path to get to that side of the ring. They try to cut a large swath around him, but the numerous knights surrounding them make it impossible and they're forced to squeeze by the group surrounding Artorius.

"You manipulative bastard," Lancelot pants out sleepily as they brush by. He's met by silence from the other knights, many of them nodding in disapproval at his words.

"You've got some bloody nerve, you insolent whelp," Dagonet replies evenly, though his eyes narrow in irritation as he still keeps his captain on his feet. "By the way, Artorius," he continues to no one in particular. "You disarmed him even more easily on the second try, even with all the injuries from the low blows and such. Good show, wouldn't you say?"

"Perhaps he should have used two swords," Artorius says almost giddily, the pain nearly getting the better of him and making him lightheaded. Agravaine throws back his head letting out of a gleeful cackle as Cador does his best to hold back a snicker along with Palamedes, Tristan shrugging in his turn, though the side of his mouth twitches with detached amusement. Suddenly the knights surrounding Lancelot, save Bors and Pellinore, scatter like rats as Lot crashes into the center of the ring, Jols following him with a bit more self-control.

"You bloody _bastard!_ Have you lost what little wits ye have!" Lot roars, smacking Lancelot in the back of the head, causing the young knight to all but slump over. Shaking his head, he fights to remain conscious as Bors blanches and Pellinore rolls his eyes.

"He's injured, Praefectus Castrorum…" Pellinore sneers.

"You think I don't see that, you slobbering little tit!"

"Well…"

"One more word out of you and I'll hang you by your thumbs myself!" The color drains from Pellinore's face a he snaps his mouth shut. Shoving Bors and Pellinore out of the way, ignoring Pellinore's rasping cry of pain as he lands awkwardly on his two-week-old broken wrist, Lot grabs Lancelot by the collar. Frankly that's now the only thing keeping the young knight on his feet at this point.

"Now, I don't know if your brains are too addled right now to hear me, you sack of waste," Lot says, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "But you pull another mutinous little stunt like that, you _will_ be punished to the fullest extent of the law, you understand!" Lancelot does his best to nod to his head, but his body is not responding to what his brain is commanding it to do.

"He's too far gone for now," Lot snaps at the other two knights as he lets go of Lancelot, letting him crumble to the ground. "Get him out of my sight," he continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Take him to the infirmary. I want to see him _very_ well rested before he receives his punishment," he grinds out. The two move at lightening speed, getting Lancelot to his feet and getting him out of the ring. "The rest of you, scatter. NOW!" Lot bellows. The silent crowd suddenly erupts with noise, doing its best to break out and get as far away from the scene as possible, disappearing within minutes.

"As for you," Lot all but yells, suddenly turning around to face Artorius, Dagonet and the others still standing there resolutely. "I fail to believe that as Uther's son, someone with your supposed high level of intellect fell for that little rat's ploy!"

"He was defending 'imself, m'lord," Dagonet replies purposefully, the others nodding in silent agreement.

"He should've walked the hell away the minute that mouthy little git started the initial argument!" Lot counters with a growl. "Check that temper of yours, Castus, and you just might not get yourself killed in the not-so-distant future." Artorius lets out a resigned sigh, though he attempts to nod in agreement.

"Get him out of here as well," Lot mutters with a wave. "The whole lot of you bastards will be the death of me," he grumbles as Dagonet and the others take their captain to the infirmary, Jols silently shaking his head in disbelief and leading the way.

* * *

"By the Goddess!" Maeve mutters, shocked at the sight of the injured commander sitting before her on the pallet. Watching as Tristan gently peels away Artorius' bloodied undershirt, she gasps again, tears coming to her eyes as she takes in the black and blue bruises littering his stomach, allow with the various cuts and abrasions. She can't take it anymore, watching as he struggles to lift his arms to allow the shirt to be pulled over his head, his breath coming in sort bursts at the pain. 

"Just cut it off," she chokes out, voice catching in throat as Dagonet squeezes her shoulder in an attempt at keeping her calm. She passes the dagger that lies on the table next her to Tristan. He easily palms it, proceeding to swiftly cut away the last of the shirt. "I-I wouldn't know where to start," she stutters, the tears flowing freely down her face now once she gets full sight of the bruises. Saying a silent prayer that Leonius finds her grandmother as soon as possible, she attempts to collect herself. The first rule of healing is never lose it in front of the patient, something she is currently failing at. Well, at least she remembered to give him the sleeping draught as soon as they dragged him in. He would be asleep within a few minutes, which would help with the pain.

"You're smart enough for having seven seasons to you," Agravaine drawls, casual tone belying his rising panic. "Just start…cleaning his wounds."

"But a possible broken rib. It could go wrong…Okay," she says as Dagonet pulls up a chair, taking the cloth hanging on her arm and dipping it into the bowl of oddly smelling herbs and water she holds in her hands. "Or, uh, he can do it," she says as she attempts to sniff back her tears. Dagonet's fingers are surprisingly gentle as he wipes away the blood coming from the few reopened scratches that run down his captain's sword-arm. Feeling along his ribs, he breathes a sigh of relief at the lack of knots or displaced bone.

"'Tis not broken," Dagonet says evenly, causing everyone in the room to let out a sigh of relief. "Bruised as hell, probably, but not broken."

"Figures that rat would be too weak to cause any real damage," Agravaine mutters.

"S-so, um, all he'll need is a wrap, something for the scratches and cut above his eye?" Maeve says, voice finally coming to her.

"Looks like that'll be all. Oh, and also a bit of the cooling water for the black eye, yeah?" Dagonet replies

"Y-yes. I'll g-go get it?" she replies, wiping her teary eyes with the back of her hand and sniffling.

"Good girl," Tristan intones, taking the bowl from her hands and pushing her out of the room as he looks over his shoulder at Artorius. He's steadily slouching down against the wall, eyes closed and his breathe slowing down. He's not completely asleep yet, but he'll be there soon. "He didn't suffer any injury to the head?" the scout asks, voice rising with concern.

"No, it's just the sleeping draught," Dagonet replies matter-of-factly, moving Artorius so that he sits up straighter and doesn't put any pressure on his ribs. The captain mutters something aloud before he begins snoring, head falling back against the wall. "He'll be out for a few hours," Dagonet continues.

"Those bastards have really been giving it to him something fierce," Cador intones, voice rising as his eyes flit over the old bruises. "I should've done something sooner…"

"We've all should've done something, sooner" Agravaine replies in an irritated voice. "Been going on since we got here: the cheap shots in the ring and during the drills, the decidedly unfunny pranks, various acts of what can only be called insubordination," he sighs. "However," he continues, face lighting up. "I suspect changes will occur after this. He pretty much pounded that mouthy little git into the ground."

"'Tis about time," Palamedes replies. "Between this and Pellinore's wrist being snapped in two like a twig, I smell some changes on the wind…" Suddenly the door to their room swings open, revealing a scowling Ceridwen being pulled along by Leonius.

"…and then whack! Right across the shoulder and he drops his sword and you should have seen it!" the boy chatters excitedly, arms flailing about as he describes the battle. "This one whacked 'im across the head and then bang! He went down like a rock. The other one's is across the way. Possible head injury, a break of the bones in the chest, bruised shins, slash across his sword-hand and other general malarkey," he counts off on his fingers. "And this one has the broken ribs, bruises…" he continues.

"No broken ribs from what I can see, m'lady," Dagonet says with a nod of respect, rising from his seat.

"Can you let one of the other girls take care of Artorius for now?" she snaps. "Not that I really care whether the other one never wakes up or not, but I can't have his angry little spirit flitting around me if he should die," she says, voice softening as she gets a good look at Artorius slumped against the wall. "The other one's a head injury, unfortunately."

"I can get 'im stable, I think…" Dagonet replies.

"Good," she replies. "One of the healers should be here shortly. In the meantime, the rest of you can go." No one makes any move to leave, causing Ceridwen to sigh. "I swear I'll take good care of him. The best," she finishes, voice becoming low and serious.

"Only the best," Cador says for emphasis after a while as he moves to leave.

"You sure you can't let the other one die?" Agravaine says, voice completely serious as he walks towards the door, grabbing Leonius by the hand and pulling him along with him.

"Sorry. Goes against the oath," she replies with a shake of her head.

"'Tis a shame," Palamedes retorts, sidestepping her and leaving as well.

"As much as I'm sure you'd like to slice him up something good, I can't let you," Ceridwen retorts, though her mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile as she leaves as well, crossing the hall to the room where Lancelot lies, Bors and Pellinore waiting for her.

"Again, 'tis a shame," Tristan replies with a smirk.

"Go on, out with you," Ceridwen says, pushing him away, through he tries to look back and get one last look at Artorius.

"Aye," he replies evenly. "Take good care of 'im, yeah?"

"I swear it."

"Good, good," he says. Making his way down the stairs and out of the infirmary, he heads over to the tavern. Maybe a good drink or four will heal his raging mind.


	11. Terms of Settlement

Almost a fortnight of being essentially a prisoner in the infirmary is starting to drive Artorius a little stir crazy. Not to mention, he's currently famished. Again. Closing the door to his room behind him, the young captain takes a deep breath, satisfied at the slight twinge of pain as he does so. It proves far better than the excruciating ache he's felt the last few days on account of his bruised ribs. If he continues to heal like this, he should be out of the infirmary in a matter of a week or so. At least that's what he thinks to himself as he begins walking down the darkened hallways. The oil lamp he carries being the only light, he tries to make his way to the dining hall. But his unfamiliarity with the building is proving quite a hindrance. Within a matter of minutes he's lost, cursing the darkness as he tries to double back. He's hungry, dammit. While by all rights he should be asleep, considering the late night hour, his stomach demands otherwise having kept him up for most of the night. The only way to settle it is raiding the larder.

Suddenly he hears groans of pain and random mutterings, followed by the hushed whimpers of someone. They seem to be coming from the around him. Arching an eyebrow in question, Artorius holds a candle up to the wall, immediately making out the outline of the door of one of the infirmary quarters, similar to his own. Pressing an ear to it, he quickly determines it proves the source of the noises. Reaching down and surprised find it unlocked, he slowly pushes it open, the creaking of its ancient hinges echoing dramatically in the night.

Blinking against the comparatively bright light of the roaring fire in the hearth, he moves forward. The groans come again, this time from the huddled figure sleeping soundly on the pallet on the side of the room. Well, he would be sleeping soundly, save the fact that he's tangled in the blankets that seem to drown him. Dark hair matted, damp brow creased, fingers clutching at the air, his lips move frantically with hushed words as, though caught in some silent fearful prayer of deliverance. His cheeks flushed with apparent fever, his movements become increasingly frantic as Artorius hurries to side.

"Lancelot?" he questions, seeing the young knight in his troubled state. Reaching out, he attempts to shake him awake but to no avail, Lancelot's murmurs becoming louder and more anxious. "Lancelot, wake up. It only proves a dream…"

Without warning, Artorius finds himself far too close to the end of a rather sharp looking blade wielded by a scarcely awake Lancelot. The knight's suddenly sitting upright, attempting to catch his breath, his hand going to the weapon out of instinct at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings, someone in his room. Still trying to catch his breath, he stares at Artorius, eyes clouded with confusion. After some moments, he finally begins to get his bearings, though he still holds his weapon at ready.

"A nightmare," he whispers, not realizing who's there until his dark eyes suddenly blaze with recognition. "W-what in the hell are you doing here?" he grunts, Artorius shrugging in response. "You're lucky I don't gut you right here and now, Roman," he continues with a tired sigh of annoyance.

"You don't say? They'd crucify you for mutiny," Artorius counters indignantly, eyes narrowing.

"Would that be before or after you explain why you're in my room in the middle of the night? I mean, you're not a bad looking sort," he continues disdainfully, "But I tend to prefer the fairer sex…"

"It would still be mutiny," Artorius shrugs, ignoring his previous words.

"Typical," Lancelot sneers. "All you hold dear to you in that rather thick head of yours are the rules," he snorts. Wiping his feverish brow with the back of his hand, he quickly rubs his eyes, destroying any evidence of previous distress. Easily palming the dagger and sheathing it, he carelessly tosses it onto the table next to his bed.

"You really think that so?" Artorius questions, voice sounding oddly distressed.

"Why should I not?" Lancelot retorts bitterly, sitting up straighter. "That's why we're here, at this accursed citadel on this wretched island. Bloody rules. Some old pact from a thousand damned years ago…"

"350 years ago," Artorius immediately corrects him, at once regretting it as he sees the dark look of fury that crosses the other knight's face.

"'Tis the bloody problem, that right there!" Lancelot begins, voice becoming angrier as he throws back the blankets and begins to get to his feet. He thinks the better of it though as his vision swims before his eyes, forcing him to take a series of deep breaths and drop back down on the pallet. "Y-you always think you're right!" he gasps out, closing his eyes as he brings a hand to his head in an effort to regain his composure. Artorius' eyes go wide at the knight's words, though he says nothing. Watching as Lancelot begins rubbing his temples and taking more deep breaths, Artorius backs away, leaning against the opposite wall and crossing his arms. Silence falls, the air thick with unsaid words and tight unease.

"Forgive me but I heard something odd, so I entered," he murmurs after a long while. "You…look as though you suffered…a nightmare."

"He talks of my suffering!" Lancelot mutters ruefully. "As though you give a bloody damn," he spits, voice louder though his eyes are still closed as his hands drop into his lap. "By the gods, just end it now!" he mumbles as he falls back onto the pallet, chest heaving with unfettered rage. The room is quiet again, save for Lancelot's labored breathing.

"You may…tell me of it…" Artorius begins to mutter uncomfortably.

"I would've hunted you down and told you if I wanted you to know, now wouldn't I?" Lancelot snaps, sitting up again, eyes snapping open. "For the love of whatever god you pray to, why don't you just leave?"

"This must be settled…"

"I'd say it is settled. We're at a stalemate, are we not? I'll never attempt to cross you in the ring, especially after that little lovely display of your skills. Quite a knock to the head you gave me. Not that that I blame you," he spitefully adds, seeing Artorius about to interrupt. "Thus, you'll never bother with me either. We may keep that truce for the next fourteen years or so, wouldn't you say?"

"We could," Artorius begins slowly with a shrug.

"Fine. It is 'settled,' as you said."

"Whatever suites you," Artorius replies gloomily with another shrug, his face despondent, eyes betraying his distress. It doesn't escape Lancelot's dark gaze, causing him to swallow hard. A twinge of guilt unexpectedly pulls at him. But he quickly swallows it down, the bitterness of its taste almost perceptible. Falling back onto his pallet and yanking up the blankets, he turns over to face the wall, his back to Artorius. After what seems an eternity of silence, Lancelot finally hears the creak of the door opening, the sound of it clicking shut following after a time.

_Bloody arse,_ Lancelot thinks to himself as he closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Whether or not he's describing his own actions, he cannot really say.

* * *

Ceridwen purposefully drops the plate of bread of between them as they sit in the dining hall for supper the next afternoon. Glaring at each other over it, Artorius and Lancelot don't say word, each taking an end of the loaf of bread in such a way to ensure they don't touch each other. Giving them each a scornful once over, she sighs with annoyance, leaving to get the rest of the meal. The oppressive silence between them seems to echo off the walls, the malice so thick in the air they swear they can taste it. Ceridwen promptly returns, two of her serving women in tow also carrying various plates of food. As they all put the rest of the meal on the table, the serving women exchange puzzled glances, looking from one knight to the other as they stare each other down, completely ignoring the servers. 

"Eh, what's the trouble with them?" one of the women promptly whispers to the other once they're out of earshot of the table, Ceridwen following closely behind.

"They're fools," Ceridwen replies, loud enough for both men to clearly hear her agitation. "Bloody _boys_ who refuse to settle their issues like _men_."

"Oooh," the serving women reply in unison, nodding their heads in understanding. All three of them leave, shaking their heads in disbelief and talking amongst themselves, the two at the table pretending not to hear them.

The dining hall falls relatively silent, again, save the sounds eating, the occasional scraping of a plate or sloshing of wine interrupting the strained stillness. After what seems an unbearable eternity, Artorius moves to leave, beginning to gather up his dishes. Lancelot suddenly moves to say something. But he quickly shuts his mouth as soon as Artorius looks up at him, the annoyance on his face clear as day. Lancelot returns his glare, to which Artorius silently shrugs. He goes back to gathering his dishes, then hastily turning on his heel and leaving.

_Halfwit_, Lancelot thinks as he munches on a bit of bread. Whether or not he's describing his own actions, he cannot really say.

* * *

In a repeat of the scene from supper that afternoon, the two men find themselves in the same situation for dinner. In all honesty, they would try to find a way out of the situation if they could. Except that Ceridwen only allows meals to be taken at a certain time to fit her schedule. And she refuses to have them sit at separate tables on account of having to clean both rather than one. So here they are yet again, alternately actively ignoring or staring down each other across from the table. "Ruttin' idiots," Ceridwen scathingly mutters as she slams down the last dish between them, swiftly making her way out of the room followed by the same serving women from before. 

Lancelot finally looks away from Arthur, actively studying the mosaics that line the wall. His eyes carefully examine the various images, having never bothered to pay much attention to them before. Suddenly, his gaze stops on a particular scene, the mosaic illustrating Judgment Day. In heaven there stands the Holy Father, the holy Virgin to his left, the placid looking Savior on his right, his right hand held up in the usual sign of holiness. Just below them stand the saved, faces lifted towards their eternal reward. Those still left to be judged are in center, looking expectantly towards heaven. But below them are the hopeless, falling into the roaring fires of the Land of Damned. Seeing the bright orange, red and yellow of the flames, the color drains from Lancelot's his face, his eyes going wide with fear. He quickly takes a long drink of his wine, almost choking on it in his haste.

"Fire…" he stutters, sputtering into his cup.

"Ehrm…come again?" Artorius retorts, looking up from where he glumly moves the food around his plate, startled by the sudden sound of his voice.

"Never mind," Lancelot replies resignedly, taking another long drink.

"I see," Artorius gradually says. But this time, rather than fixing him with a stare of annoyance or outright disdain, Artorius looks downright concerned. How it is possible, Lancelot doesn't know. The fact that he notices such a thing and that he's even talking to the little Roman bothers him even more.

"I dreamt of fire," Lancelot counters after a while, voice strained and almost a whisper, eyes shifting over to the wall again. "Last night….My village…burnt ash and smoke, gone," he sputters out. "No one left, the earth torched and salted…" he continues, eyes flitting away from the mosaics and coming to rest on Artorius, who stares at him in utter bewilderment. "For the love of the god, don't try to figure it out…just listen!" Lancelot rasps, feeling as though he can see the gears spinning in the young captain's head, judging by the look on his face.

"Come again?" Artorius slowly replies.

"Look, you're the only here, so it's not as though I have a choice in who I may carry on with. Is that what you want to hear? The fact that you're the last resort? That frankly, I'd rather fall on my own sword than acknowledge you?" Lancelot snaps, voice ragged. "Why am I even telling you this?" he mutters.

"You've made it very clear I'm a last resort," Artorius replies flatly.

"Aye. At least you've made your peace with it," Lancelot retorts with an unexpected half-grin before he's able to catch himself.

"You were saying something about fire and your dream?" Artorius counters, unmoved. That is until he sees Lancelot close his eyes again, his mood shifting yet again as his face becomes pale and anxious.

"We are so damned far from home," Lancelot begins to mutter. "Having to cross the great sea to get to this place…sometimes, the mind simply can't take it all in, the shock of it, you know. So…we do things…things that are terribly unbecoming and serve little purpose, except to create discord and disharmony. And then, because we keep it locked away, the mind uses it against us, makes our greatest fears come to the light, over and over again at our most vulnerable. Such are dreams. Or nightmares, really." He opens his eyes to find Artorius warily staring at him from across the table. And then he takes a deep breath, finding the words beginning to tumble out despite his best efforts at control.

"Have you ever seen Sarmatia, Artorius?" Artorius barely has time mutely shake his head "no" before Lancelot babbles on. "It proves nothing like this accursed island; 'tis never dreary and misty or cold and frozen for half the year. The sky doesn't weep out its pitiful rains or blow its blinding fogs. No mournful stretches of muddy green grass, no grim grey cliffs leading to deadly ravines scattered with razor-sharp rocks, no gravelly beaches kissed by the raging, boiling tides. No forlorn citadels tearing into the earth, no stony outposts filled with cynical, weary soldiers, struggling to maintain some foreign sense of order and civility," Lancelot chokes.

"Sarmatia is a land of endless golden plains and warm black earth, covered by the cap of the blue sky. The waves of yellow grass stretch out as far as the eye can see, save to the south, where there lies the great Black Sea. Great packs of untamed horses run wild, their spirits that of warriors long dead, ecstatic to free of the petty concerns of man. The earth is dotted with tents of various villages and settlements, filled with people living off the land. We are tied to nothing but the sacred soil. We move from place to place as we please, not as the result of some empire looking to rape the land for its own supposed glory," he breathes wistfully, staring at some distant place beyond them.

"Such is the Sarmatia I fear I shall never see again," he continues, voice hushed, "For in my nightmares it is burned away. Slashed and set ablaze, salted and scorched. Men, women, children and horses are slain, their twisted, blackened corpses scarring the plain. The earth is stained with blood, the golden grass dead and rotting, the sky a choking black cloud of ash and dust. This is how I find my village after fifteen long years of the waking nightmare that is my Roman pact. Its existence wiped from memory because I was not there to defend it."

"You think you prove the only one missing home?" Artorius whispers after what seems an eternity of silence. "You think you're the only one who dreams of home broken and wiped out? At least you haven't lived through such a thing," he retorts. Lancelot's eyes widen, his dark gaze resting on the opposite man, who now sits stock still, save for the heave of his shoulders.

"You're of the empire," Lancelot begins, voice full of skepticism, "A general. A native Roman. You've lived in a villa all your life, in the countryside, servants and slaves at your beck and call. What did you have to fear coming up in the world?"

Without warning, Artorius begins to laugh out loud, the bitterness in it leaving Lancelot speechless, even withdrawing a bit.

"And _you_…" Artorius chokes out between his laughter, "Accuse _me_ of making assumptions? How ironic indeed," the young captain snorts out. "We can die at any time," he suddenly says with a growl, voice deadly serious, all signs of laughter vanished. "Our lives blown away in many terrible and hopeless ways: battle, plague, injury, accident, suicide, murder, torture, starvation. We could die screaming and bloodied or silent with nary a visible scratch. We could die miserable and alone or surrounded by our mourning friends. We could die by the hand of the enemy or by the hand of a merciful friend putting us out of our wretched pain. We could die old and sick, a long life of behind us, or young and strong, a life of prospect and fortune snuffed out like candles in a storm."

"And yet…you allow figments of the mind to control you? You allow some feverish moments of an ugly but nonexistent fate to bring all of your capabilities crashing to the ground? I'd like to think you're stronger than that. I _know_ your weaknesses prove less evident. Or are _my_ assumptions as false as yours?" Lancelot's now the one who sits stock still, eyes staring almost lifelessly at Artorius. Suddenly, his brow begins to furrow, his face turning red, lip curling in derision as his hands grip the table and he swiftly gets to his feet.

"Y-you don't know me!" he all but yells. "You've never _tried_ to know me, Roman…"

"You've refused to same thing on your part!" Artorius retorts, getting to his feet as well. "From day one, you've ignored every sense of protocol, of order! You purposefully made my life very close to a living hell! You're the very reason why I'm here, slowly going insane from account of being locked up. You, Lancelot, judged me, never allowing anything in return. Of course I don't know you! You refuse to know _me!_"

The noise of their tirade causes one of the serving women to come running to the hall, tailed by the other one and Ceridwen. The first woman attempts to move into the room to settle them down, but Ceridwen grabs her wrist, quickly pulling her back before either of the knights notice them. "Not yet," Ceridwen murmurs. "They need to settle this and interrupting it now won't help," she nods knowingly. The other two women nod in disagreement, but fall back. "I know it sounds mad, but trust me," Ceridwen counters, moving back into the shadows. All three disappear out of the doorway leading to the dining hall.

The two still stand across the table, staring daggers at one another, neither refusing to back down. That is until an unexpected wave of regret washes over Artorius.

Hubris. Ceridwen warned him of it.

"So what do we do now," he mumurs, causing Lancelot to start. Quickly regaining his composure, the other knight squares his shoulders.

"What do you mean 'what do we do?'" he asks, not bothering to hide the doubt in his voice.

"It needs to be settled," Artorius shrugs. Lancelot doesn't reply but quickly finds himself taking a seat, this time not really caring about who's backed down first, Artorius quickly following suit.

"They say that death is the great equalizer," Lancelot hears himself say after a while, looking up from his half-eaten plate of food.

"What?"

"No matter how you were in life, everyone dies; rich, poor, Roman, Sarmatian, Briton. Everyone dies."

"Um…"

"All I'm saying is that we have to have something in common. The inevitability of dying is one of them."

"That's a little morbid, don't you think?" Artorius finds himself saying with an uncomfortable chuckle. Lancelot shrugs, though a ghost of a grin is on his face.

"Well, what else would you propose, Roman?"

"That you stop calling me 'Roman?'" Artorius replies, though it is a request rather than a demand. Lancelot shrugs again. Cocking his head to the side, his eyes flit over the Roman. It looks like he's sincere.

"Fine. What do _you_ propose, Rom…M'lord?" Lancelot finds he all but chokes on the final word. It doesn't escape his captain's notice.

"You also don't have to call me 'M'Lord'" he says. "Artorius is fine."

"Still sounds a little full of it," Lancelot retorts.

"Well, it's my given name. I certainly can't change that," he shrugs.

"Well…" Lancelot sighs.

"Well," Artorius replies. The silence between them is back, though time it is neither heavy nor laced with malice.

"How about…'Arthur?'"

"Eh?"

"'Arthur,'" Lancelot repeats. "It's only a shortening of that rather long 'Artorius' nonsense. Doesn't sound so bloody pretentious…or Roman, frankly."

"So you're looking to strip me of my inheritance as well?" Artorius retorts.

"See, that's what I'm talking abou…"

"I'm attempting to be humorous," Artorius replies with uncharacteristic smirk, causing Lancelot to go silent. "Come now," he quickly adds. "'Arthur' sounds acceptable. It may…it _will _grow on me. 'Arthur.' I…like it."

"So, eh, what now?" Lancelot begins, cheeks flushing with nervousness. "Not to be the most cynical of sorts, _Arthur_, but one conversation does not a comrade make…"

"What more do you want of me?" Arthur replies tentatively.

"If you truly see us, Sarmatians, as your equal," the other knight begins thoughtfully, "Then I will give you my unquestionable loyalty. The others will follow, that much I guarantee," he finishes resolutely. "But the minute you slip, none of this means a thing."

I shall concede to that," Arthur replies after a while, equally resolute as he reaches across the table to shake on it. Lancelot looks doubtful but finds he reaches across as well, sealing the promise. "So really," Artorius continues, "How's your head?" His voice is serious as not to draw any sort of ire.

"Hurts like hell. Like I said, quite a knock you gave me…" Lancelot murmurs.

"Well, if it doesn't hurt tomorrow," Arthur continues, cutting him off, not wanting to relive the moment, "Would you like to get a bit practice in?"

"What, you'll teach me to use two swords?"

"I was delirious when I said that," Arthur replies, visibly flinching at the memory of the insult.

"Now it is I attempting to be humorous," Lancelot replies with his characteristic smirk. "And to tell you the truth, it's not such a bad idea."

"But you'd have to be able to use both hands…"

"I can," Lancelot shrugs. "Always have been able to. Runs in the family. It's just that the Roman style of fighting with the gladius requires only the right hand. That infernal piece of crap of a sword they give us isn't terribly effective, especially outside the Roman formations, no offense."

"None taken," Arthur grins. "So you really can use both hands?"

"I actually favor my left more than the right, but it's possible. I practice with my own weapons when not on duty. In fact most of us prefer our own weapons to tell you the truth," he continues, looking sideways at Arthur. "It may not be to Roman design…"

"But it makes you all feel more effective, thereby making the company more effective," Arthur finishes. "And such effectiveness shall be put in place as soon as I get out of here." Lancelot finds he cannot stop from smiling at this grasp of independence. "Anyway," Arthur continues, "It's agreed. I'll have to get old Lamorak to teach you then."

"The arms-master?" Lancelot chuckles. "By the gods, he's old as dirt. I doubt he can swing one sword, let alone two."

"You'd be surprised," Arthur grins, getting up from the table and collecting his plates. Lancelot follows and they walk out of the dining hall, conversation finally flowing between them. Within minutes of their exit, the serving women and Ceridwen enter from the other side of the hall, clearing away the last of the dinner mess.

"And you didn't believe me," Ceridwen intones, a grin on her face. The serving women chuckle in reply, shaking their heads in disbelief. "Boys will be boys," she continues, wiping the table down. "But 'tis only a true nobleman who puts aside the boy within him in order to become a man."

* * *

**A/N:** Don't know if this makes any sense, but for some reason, I see the Sarmatians as a sort of fallen Rohirrim, their land similar to Rohan. Kind of like what if Rohan had been conquered by some outside empire later on down the line in a thousand years. And the result of their loss is why they provide knights to Rome, a living ransom of sorts. I don't know why I think that; it's all probably on account of the obvious love Sarmatians have for their horses. And the fact that I happened to be writing this chapter while listening to _The Two Towers_ soundtrack. 

Anyway, I'm taking a break for a bit (work and other things, to say the least). This story is not abandoned, just on hiatus.


	12. The Test

_Burdens are the foundations of ease and bitter things the forerunners of pleasure. _

**-Mevlana Rumi**, 13th century sufi poet and mystic

* * *

_Fall, 442 AD_

"Something's gonna gone wrong, I can feel it in me bones," Vanora clenches through her smile as she waves her handkerchief at the departing knights. They're passing south, through the Great Gate directly below her from where she stands on the ramparts, Bors immediately seeing her actions.

"Vanora!" he bellows, causing the departing soldiers around him to laugh. "Ruuuussss!" he roars, completely ignoring them and raising a defiant fist in the air. She can't help but blush as she chuckles at him.

"He's gonna get himself killed bein' all obvious like that!" she shakes her head, though she still laughs. Heraniae gives the girl of fifteen seasons an odd look, even as she blows a kiss to a departing Dagonet. He returns her gesture with a wave and beaming smile, easily seen on this rather clear, beautiful, early Fall day. The sun is shining, the sky is streaked with its usual grey clouds and the leaves of the trees are just beginning to turn their dark colors of golden red and orange. It's been an unusually warm summer, allowing a good harvest and spirits throughout the citadel to run high.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Heraniae hisses.

"You know how she gets," Maeve retorts. She catches Galahad's eye as she waves goodbye and he gives an exaggerated wave in return, causing her to snort with laughter. "She always has 'the feeling,'" she continues.

"Well, sometimes it is right, sometimes it's wrong," Leonius squeaks, his voice betraying him yet again. He has grown quite a bit, lanky and seemingly all arms and legs. At almost thirteen seasons he's constantly tripping over himself, his grace all but gone, face constantly pink with blushing, voice cracking and squeaking as he moves into manhood.

"What do you know?" Vanora retorts. "Besides, shouldn't you be over at the smithy with your father?"

"My arms hurt," Leonius mutters. "All that damn training at the forge. I can barely move my fingers…"

"It'll only help you to grow up big and strong," Heraniae counters, a dreamy look in her eyes as she stares out at the phalyx of quickly departing men. "You'll be a heartbreaker some day…"

"Ewww," Leonius and Maeve sniff together, each turning up their noses.

"Just give it a few years, love, and I guarantee neither of you will be so against such a thing."

"I still say something'll go wrong," Vanora mutters, leaning on the parapet and still staring at the departing men.

"That's only because you're scared for your lover-boy Bors," Maeve taunts.

"I am not!" Vanora counters defiantly. "And so what if I like 'im? It's not like he's the worse sort and he ain't so bad. 'Sides, he's barely a man. No need for him to be getting' his arse killed already."

"No need for _any_ of them to be getting killed!" Heraniae adds. Suddenly she begins coughing, face turning pale.

"Oh no, are you not feelin' well again, lass?" Vanora says, quickly taking her hand.

"Fine, fine. Just a slight spell. I ate too much for breakfast…"

"You've been saying that for the last month or so!"

"I'll be fine…Vanora," she replies, even as her hand goes to her mouth and she chokes back something. Leonius gives her a sideways glance, immediately going to get one of the rain buckets that line the wall. Passing it to her, she takes in both hands, leaning over and starting to take deep breaths.

"You sure you're to be alright?" Vanora asks.

"Yeah…no…" Suddenly the noises of wretching begin and Heraniae throws up into the bucket, Vanora holding her hair back as Maeve pulls out her handkerchief.

"That doesn't sound too good," Leonius mutters.

"Get it all out, love," Vanora sooths as Heraniae continues. She's finally done after a long while, wiping her mouth the handkerchief that's passed to her.

"Keep it," Maeve quickly replies.

"T-thanks."

"You should go to the infirmary," Vanora clucks.

"I'll be fine…just…a bit of bad fish," Hereniae replies, leaning against the wall for support, clutching at her stomach.

"For the last month?

"I'll. Be. Fine."

"Have it your way," Vanora says, though she takes Heraniae by the hand and leads her down the stone stairs.

"Hope she's okay," Maeve says, following them.

"She's strong. She'll be alright," Leonius counters, following her. They quickly go down the stairs and split off their various duties, though Vanora's worries still echo in the back of their respective minds.

* * *

"You might want to get a better hold of your animal, boy. It's makin' enough noise to bring on a whole battalion of these damned Woads!" Bors snorts, tightening the reins of his own mount to stop it from moving too fast. "Some of us have things to get to back to at the citadel!" 

"Vanora ain't going nowhere," Galahad retorts with a snort. "And even if she does, it's not as though you can stop her. Have you even been around with her yet? Or are you waiting for this supposed apocalypse these Christians talk of?" he laughs as he attempts to reign in his animal.

"Watch yer mouth, you git," Bors stutters, face turning red.

"Eh, let 'im be, Bors," Gawain retorts as he reaches out and lightly tugs on the bridle of Galahad's horse, immediately causing the excitable animal to calm down and skitter to a stop. "Can't you see the poor thing proves far too little for his ride? He's always been on the slight side," he continues with a smirk.

"Shut-up," Galahad mumbles, though he pulls in his knees closer to his animal's haunches to ensure he doesn't go sliding over the head of it should he come to a sudden stop, his too-big armor clinking and clacking with him. Sure, he had grown quite a bit in the last couple of years, outgrowing his old ride. But still, why in the hell did they give him such a large charger?

"Should've given you a pony back at the stables, lad," Peredur laughs, also bringing his horse to a standstill to avoid crashing into Gawain, who rides in front of him. "I'll be sure to thrash 'em somethin' good if you end up falling off and breakin' yer wee neck."

"Not if I break yours first," Galahad counters spitefully.

"I'll break all your necks if the lot of you don't keep quiet!" Lot barks in front of them, turning around on his horse to give the group a rather blood-chilling glare. Most everyone quickly looks away, save Gaheris, who bites back a laugh, Tristian, who's busy silently taking inventory of their surroundings as per usual, and Agravaine, who breezily attempts to carry on his conversation with Calogrenant. Calogrenant's having none of it, sitting up straight in his saddle and doing his best to tune out his best friend's chatter. He's constantly drawing Lot's ire more often than not and he'll be damned if he does it again today.

"Steady on, men," Jols then calls out from behind them, the underlying annoyance in his voice warning them to keep it quiet. "I certainly don't want to hear Lot's rancor, so I'm sure you don't as well." A murmur of agreement floats through the mixed patrol of Sarmatians and Romanized Britons before they fall silent.

"These woods are too damn still, like they're _waiting_ for something to happen," Gareth mutters after a while.

"Not particularly," Gaheris says with a grin as he sidles up next to his brother. "Open season is almost over and nothing's occurred yet."

"Which means they're getting desperate and more likely to attack," a rough-hewn voice from his left says.

"Always looking on the bright side, eh, Geraint? What, with that sort of sour disposition, one would think you're Gareth's twin," Gaheris chuckles, causing his younger brother Gareth to frown and roll his eyes. "Granted, it's not by blood but you certainly look the part." That proves relatively true. For Geraint, with his green eyes and tousled blonde hair that falls on the long side could easily be mistaken for the other brothers. He isin fact of their village, having grown up with all four of them: Agravaine, Gaheris, Gareth and Gawain (in that birth order). The only difference proves his rather sharper features and the fact that he isn't quite so broad as they are despite he was close to being as old as Agravaine. However, what he lacks in brawn, he makes up for in grace and his quiet sense of self.

"It _does_ prove a bit disconcerting…" Geraint hears Tristan murmur beside him, as though reading his thoughts.

"The silence?" he replies with a nod, completely used to the scout's abilities to suddenly conjure himself out of thin air. "Dead on," he continues, giving him a mirthless smile. "Not a sound: no birds, no animals, no shaking branches..."

"We're being watched," Agravaine retorts, finishing the other knight's sentence, also riding up as though appearing out of nowhere. While he'll most likely never be as silent a scout as Tristan, he's taken to his duties particularly well, proving some healthy competition.

"What in the hell? How do they that every time!" Gawain all but shouts in surprise at seeing both the scout and his brother sidle up.

"Practice, mate" the Tristan replies with an enigmatic grin. Suddenly he's gone again, only to quickly reappear far ahead of them along with Agravaine and Palamedes, another of the scouts. They stop just short of Arthur, no doubt to tell him of their findings. Suddenly without warning, Gawain hears a hiss of pain beside him. Whipping around, his eyes widen in horror as he sees the black arrow embed itself into Bors lower arm, the knight clutching at it as he bites back a howl of pain. Eerie animalistic cries fly from the trees as the deadly hiss of arrows fills the air above them.

"Arrow on bow, _now!"_ Jols bellows, already taking aim at the trees ahead of the group. His command is met by a strangled cry as a blue figure falls out of it, his arrow embedded in its throat. And then, it's chaos. Shards of death fly over them, a few completely missing their marks, but mostly decidedly accurate as Gawain quickly finds out, a barbed arrowhead grazing his hand. It would have been in it had he not reached for his bow. He swiftly hears a growl of pain, turning to find a Briton soldier beside him with an arrow embedded in his shoulder. But the soldier does not waver, quickly snapping off the shaft and notching his own arrow to his bow. Letting it fly, he gives Gawain a satisfied nod as another blue painted body falls from the trees.

"Bet you can't get one," he snorts.

"Oh, we shall see, Urien," Gawain retorts, aiming high as a baleful horn calls out and the flurry of Woad arrows thickens. Just ahead, Gawain makes out a dark-haired knight fall from his horse, his throat tightening as he frantically rides up to assist. _Galahad!_ his mind screams.

"What the hell is he doing?" Galahad calls out to Tristan as he watches Gawain gallop forward. The scout simply shrugs his shoulders, shooting off a quick succession of deadly accurate arrows. Already, three Woad bodies lie on the ground, a live one snorting with effort as she struggles to crawl back into the thick undergrowth of the forest, arrow in her back. Tristan would finish her off but he draws back his charger from a new slew of arrows.

"Steady on!" Galahad calls out as he quickly shoots a Woad peeking out from his position low on the branches of a tree ahead of them. The arrow of the enemy intended for Tristan goes wide as he falls to the ground, his last breaths gurgling from him.

"You'd better watch for your friend," Tristan replies nonchalantly nodding ahead of them. Gawain's slumped over his saddle, hand on his thigh as Galahad gives a gasp of dismay and races towards him.

Arthur watches in horror as Lancelot slides from his horse, ignoring Gawain as he rushes up. The young commander quickly dismounts, throwing himself over a barely awake Lancelot, who has struck his head against a thick tree root. He furiously fires off his own rounds of arrows as Gawain disembarks from his animal, dragging Lancelot out of the fray.

"A shot in his side, one in his right shoulder," Arthur grits, giving a satisfied nod as another Woad hits the ground, arrows in his chest.

"Oh," Gawain murmurs, blinking back tears of pain from the arrow in his thigh.

"You're in no shape to be tending to him," Urien smirks as he rides up, breaking off the shaft of another arrow in his arm. A scream tears through the air as a Woad woman falls on the perimeter of the clearing, her lifeless eyes staring up at the grey sky.

"_A woman?"_ Gawain calls out in dismay, scrambling away from the body.

"Your women fight, yeah?" Urien replies. "Theirs do as well."

"Just as good as the men," Agravaine shouts riding up, Palamedes and Jols on his heels. "Gotten rid of the ones from behind," Palamedes breathes. "Looks like some more…" Suddenly the horn calls out again and the melee suddenly stops. The Woad war cry fills the air as the leaves of the trees rustle and then suddenly cease, arrows no longer flying. Silence falls, save for the nervous snorts of the patrol's horses, soldiers and knights looking around in bewilderment, arrows on bow and ready to fire. The stillness of the air hangs over them like a threat for what seems an eternity. But no further attack comes. In fact, the bodies of the dead Woads seem to have disappeared, the only trace of them the marks on the dirt from where they have been apparently been dragged back into the woods.

"He'll need to be lashed to his horse to ensure he doesn't fall from it on the ride back," Arthur orders after a long while, voice flat but eyes glittering with worry as he pulls Lancelot to his feet. Lancelot groans in pain as Jols snaps off the shaft of the arrow embedded in his side. Dabbing at the wound, he nods to Arthur, "Not too deep."

"I-I'll be fine," Lancelot grumbles, wincing as he says it.

"We should get back as soon as possible," Jols replies, ignoring knight's efforts to shrug off the injury. "A few others are injured, but he's the most serious," he continues as he helps Lancelot mount his horse. Suddenly a low whistle is heard from the forest and a young, wild-haired Woads appears out of the undergrowth.

"Gwenhwyvar," Arthur spits, remembering the Woad girl who threatened his life a few years back. Her eyes burn with hatred as she points accusingly at Arthur, the Woad gibberish falling low and raspy from her lips, as though some hex of hell. And like the flash of lightening currently tearing across the sky, she's gone, leaving the knights to stare at the spot where stood with a mixture of abhorrence and fear.

"Of what did she speak?" Arthur murmurs tiredly to Amhar, who's lashing Lancelot to his saddle.

"_This is not over, cursed Roman. Your blood shall run upon our next gathering_, the bloody witch," the soldier replies grimly.

"So be it," the young captain retorts, face stony.

* * *

The air of the infirmary is laced with apprehensive dismay as the injured knights are helped to various beds. Maeve, having seen their return from the ramparts and counting the injured (breathing a sigh of relief to see her father Jols wasn't among them), made a mad dash to the building, ordering the various healers to stoke to the fires and prepare themselves. Vanora had finished mixing the last of the herbal mulch for the compresses, while Ceridwen tossed out spools of the fine thread used for stitching to everyone. Wiping her hands on her apron, she reaches out and grabs her granddaughter by her shoulders, spinning her around to face her. 

"Are you ready, little one?" she asks.

"Yes, mum," Maeve nods, though her eyes go wide with worry.

"If you're not, just say it. I know you've had the lessons and you've got nine seasons to you now, but 'tis better to help along rather than directly and risk injuring any of them further."

"I'll be alright," Maeve breathes, standing up straighter.

"Good girl," Ceridwen replies, squeezing her shoulders in reassurance. Hearing the clatter of metal armor upon the stone floor, she quickly turns around to find Arthur half carrying, half dragging in a dirty, blood-splattered Lancelot, Calogrenant on his other side.

"He's caught the worst of it, but he'll live," Arthur says with a nod towards Lancelot, face grim, green eyes hard set as Ceridwen points to the nearest bed. "A couple of arrows, one in his arm, the other in his side, but not too deep, thank God. And he fell from his horse and hit his head. Most of the blood isn't his."

"Of course it's not," Calogrenant laughs softly, ignoring the blood that trails down the numerous cuts on his arm and drips to the floor. "It's mine," he muses, taking a seat in a chair, already beginning to unroll the bandages next to him. Maeve runs to him, swatting away his hand and pointing to the bowl of steaming water and rough hewn soap on the table next him. He nods in reply as she delicately peels back his bloodied over-tunic, wiping down his arm. Biting back the urge to gag at the sight of so much blood, she instead focuses on cleaning as much of it as possible. "Many thanks, lass," the knight utters. "'Tis is why I fight; I'd make the worst healer in the world," he mulls. He winces as he tosses back the clay cup full of the familiar, foul smelling pain-killer she's handed him. He'll need it for her stitches.

"Bloody Woads'!" Galahad calls out as he drags Gawain with him through the door. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought when Lancelot fell it was you," Gawain retorts.

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Galahad sniffs. "Better than getting yourself killed."

"Well, Calogrenant almost bit it," Gawain huffs, wincing as his hand goes to his thigh. "Urien as well."

"Doesn't make it better!" Galahad all but yells.

"You would've done the same for me, I should hope," Gawain mutters.

"But I wouldn't have gotten myself killed!"

"Eh, he ain't dead," Bors bellows, coming through the doorway, his uninjured arm slung around Urien. The Briton gives him a nod of thanks as Bors settles him onto another bed. "Look 'ere, mate," Bors nods, "I told ya there's no need to go proving your Britons are braver than us Sarmatians," he snorts as he begins removing Urien's cuirass, careful not to tug too hard on it to avoid moving the two the arrows in Urien's right arm and shoulder. "It's a given you'll never be as good as us!"

"You wish," Urien grits. "That's why I've two of these damned things in me and you have one, eh?"

"Better at fighting. Don't make myself a moving target!"

"Because you're scared?" Urien grins.

"Because I'm good!" Bors chuckles. Suddenly he grimaces as the last Urien's mail brushes against his arm, which currently has an arrow sticking out of it at a haphazard angle. One of the other healers comes to them, clucking her tongue in annoyance as she begins attending to Urien, pointing for Bors to go sit by the fireplace.

"You wouldn't be if you were," Ceridwen tosses out as she attends to Lancelot, her dry reply causing most of the other knights to laugh, but for Galahad.

"You've got some nerve!" he snarls at Gawain. "You shouldn't be in here either!"

"Alright _mother_," Gawain snorts.

"I ain't your mother thankfully," Galahad snaps, sitting on the edge of Gawain's bed. Gawain frowns as the younger knight pulls a leg under himself and begins nervously playing with his hands. His face falls at the way Galahad's shoulders slump and his glassy eyes widen as he bites on his lower lip, his face as pale as a sheet. And suddenly all of Galahad's maturity seems to slip away; in a flash, it's as though the little boy inside has come out to cry.

"Forgive me, mate," Gawain murmurs, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have worried you."

"I'm not worried," Galahad sniffs looking away from him.

"Sure," Gawain retorts, knowing better. Vanora's next to him now, cutting through his bloodied breeches as another healer quickly goes about getting the arrow out of him. Biting back a loud hiss a pain, he looks up, surprised as he feels a weight on his shoulder. Galahad stands next to him, a hand on his shoulder.

In the meantime, Bors blinks back tears of pain, cursing loudly as Ceridwen breaks off the pointed shaft of the arrow that slices through his arm. "This will hurt," the older woman says flatly as she holds his wrist one hand, bracing herself against the wood post of the bed he sits on.

"You don't bloody say!" Bors bellows. Even in the dim light of the dusk seeping in through the slats of infirmary shutters, he can still make out the thin trails of his blood against his tanned arm. The sight of it causes him to roll his eyes in aggravation. Tearing his vision from it, he suddenly reaches out and clutches at Vanora's hand, for she's the only other one standing by the bed where he sits, having completed her previous task. Her eyes narrow at his action as his grip threatens to break her hand. But she doesn't pull away, instead taking a deep breath. Glancing over at the wound, the color drains from her face.

"Don't faint, girl," he growls, shaking her wrist for emphasis. She snorts in reply. But somehow she has the distinct feeling he's talking to himself rather than to her. "Can't go pullin' ya off the floor with me bum arm and all," he continues, flashing a pained smile.

"I ain't going to go falling down on my arse like some child," she retorts, rolling her eyes at him as the color returns to her cheeks. "Seen worse than this bloody mess. And on some younger than you, old man."

"Old!" he snorts. "Hmph! I got barely eighteen seasons to me, young miss!"

"You sure do whine like you got only eight bloody seasons to ya!"

"Language, Vanora," Ceridwen tosses out distractedly, fingers beginning to grip the shaft of the arrow.

"Sorry, mum."

"Such as it is," Ceridwen counters, impassively. "Forgive me, Bors," she continues as her hand closes completely around the arrow, motions causing Bors to gasp in pain.

"Get on with it," he grits after a while, though his voice softens at the surprising look of concern that comes to her face. "And ain't no need to ask for anything sort or forgiveness or any of that rubbish, unless me arm goes fallin' off after you take this damned thing out. Imagine that! A bloody knight with no arm, stalkin' about and scarin' the children and such. I see you find that funny, lass?" he continues, turning away from Ceridwen and waggling his eyebrows at Vanora.

"Ain't nothing funny 'bout havin' no arm, no, sir," she breathes, biting back a laugh the mischievous expression that comes to his face. She involuntarily squeezes his hand in reassurance as Ceridwen readjusts herself in preparation for yanking out the extraction.

"Eh, don't go calling me 'sir,'" Bors stutters, cheeks turning red. "I certainly ain't no lord yet and you're more a lady than most I ever met. No offense mistress Ceridwen, for you're a lady as well..."

"None taken…" _Snap!_

"By the gods and all that is holy…hell…bloody _whore of the sky_, son of a _bitch!"_ Bors howls, new tears springing to his eyes as Ceridwen suddenly shoves the shaft clean through and pulls it out completely, her other hand moving almost faster than he can see as she presses a compress into the rather gaping hole left. Vanora looks on completely mollified, her hand all but crushed in his grip. He leans over, sending off a string of what's most likely the foulest of curses in his native tongue. Wiping at his glistening face with the back of his hand, he quickly sits up again.

"You…alright?" Vanora murmurs, quickly handing him a bottle off the shelf behind her. He slurps most of it down, wincing at the bitter taste.

"F-fine lass…just…fine," he groans. "Like ya said…seen worse…right?"

"Aye. I also seen far worse reactions," she intones. "Better not drink all of that. It's liquor but laced with a sleeping draught," she continues taking the bottle out of his hands.

"Well, at least it didn't hit any tendons," Ceridwen says matter-of-factly as she casts arrow into a bowl filled with other bloodied ones. "Move your hand, boy," she orders and he does so, albeit painfully. "Your fingers too," she continues, to which he flexes them. "Good. You shouldn't use your hand for at least a fortnight or so, no question 'bout it," she warns as Bors lets out an exasperated sigh. "You'll have to come to the infirmary to get it cleaned daily. Twice a day if you're especially active. And I suggest you do so if you don't want any rot to set in and end up losing your arm… Vanora, can you mend this?" the older woman asks.

"Not too difficult," the younger woman replies with deferential nod as Ceridwen takes the bowl of arrows with her and leaves.

"Yer mum's a bit matter-of-fact," Bors begins as Vanora cleans the wound again.

"Aye," she replies distractedly.

"I guess yer dad's the one with all the jokes in the family, eh?" he continues.

"Wouldn't know," she shrugs. "Dead before I could remember 'im."

"Oh. Sorry then," he mutters. "Must have been hard on her."

"Who?"

"Ceridwen. Yer mum."

"My mum died havin' me," she replies looking up and raising a quizzical brow. "Ceridwen's all I remember. Granted she's not my mum by blood, but it doesn't matter. Might as well be."

"Um…" he clears his throat uncomfortably.

"No need to be feeling sorry about that," Vanora snorts. "As much trouble as I give her, she'll always be my mum. Just as I'll always be 'er daughter."

"Nice to be looked after," Bors replies, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"You should know," she chuckles, finishing the stitches and dressing his arm. "'Ole Dags' always keeping an eye on you."

"Eh, he don't have too. Just does," he shrugs

"Like Ceridwen does with me. There, all done," she says, pulling his bandage tight. "Ain't no need for you to stay in the infirmary. Other folks need the space," she replies, reaching out a hand. He takes it and gets to his feet.

"So…" he begins giving her an appreciative once over as she begins cleaning up. Finding he can't say anything as he watches her, he begins to pick up his sword and bits of his armor. Having quickly finished that, he stands by the bed, shuffling his feet with a huff loud enough so that she stops what she's doing, turning around to face him.

"Yeah?" she asks. "You haven't gotten anything else that needs mending?"

"Uh, no. Just…"

"C'mon, out with it," she sighs in exasperation. "I'm hungry as hell and haven't eaten all day, so say what you want so I can raid me mum's larders."

"Well…see…_Vanora_."

"I think I know my own name," she tosses back, ignoring the snickers of the other knights whose attention is now riveted to the scene before them.

"Of course ya do, but I…"

"Oh, by the Gods! See here, Bors, do you want to get somethin' to eat?"

"Come again?" he says, eyes going wide as he nervously scratches at his chin, trying to keep from pacing the room.

"I think she asked you to go eat, mate, since you ain't too keen upon doin' it yourself," Urien calls out. His mouth snaps shut Bors spins around and gives him a solid glare. However, the mischievous look returns to his face as soon as Bor's back is to him again.

"You should listen to dear Urien there," Vanora snorts. "That's what you were goin' to ask, wasn't it?"

"I think it was," Arthur drawls, his eyes sparkling with laughter as he casually leans against wall next to Lancelot's bed.

"Why don't you mind yer own business, sir?" Bors grits. "And No…I mean yes," he mutters quickly as he sees the irritated frown come to Vanora's face.

"So?" she rejoins. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"What?"

"If she wanted to eat!" Lancelot slurs as he rolls his eyes, fighting to stay awake against the sleeping draught he's been given. "Bloody hell, man! Ask her about before I die already. Or ask her around, for I must say, even in my near death, my dear Vanora, your beauty shines brighter than sun of this or any other land," his voice lilts as he struggles to sit up.

"Oh, you ain't going die, boy!" Vanora snorts.

"If you all don't shut the hell up!..." Bors roars, hands going to the non-existent sword on his hip. The other knights snicker, though they do go quiet. "Riveting!" Gawain whispers loudly, causing Bors to roll his eyes.

"So I want to eat!" Vanora snaps, voice getting high as she drops her supplies on the table and crosses her arms. Dark eyes flashing with increasing anger and causing Bors to take a step back, her words speedily tumble out of her mouth. "Jesus, what is wrong with you? You can go out there and scream my name to the ramparts, fight the Blue Devil Ghosts, fall off your horse and almost get trampled to death, take an arrow to the arm and drag your bloodied self back to the citadel with nary a care! But got forbid, you can't ask me to go eat? We've been dancing around with this for half the year already, and I'm getting bloody tired of it! My eye ain't going to stay just on you. They're plenty of other pretty knights and soldiers and such wandering around…"

"Like me!" Galahad whispers loudly.

"They may be pretty and all but they ain't _me_," Bors growls as he takes a step towards her, ignoring Galahad.

"So what?" she retorts, not flinching in slightest, her face lighting up with a feral grin. "They at least have the courage to ask me around!"

"So you're going around with someone else?" he grumbles, kicking at the stone floor in frustration.

"No, but I could be!" she counters, lifting her nose into the air as she pushes back a few runaway strands of hair behind her ear. "I ain't the brightest beauty, but I can get by pretty well. Not to mention I'm charming as hell if you'd bother to remember it!"

"How can I forget when you're standing right 'ere, love?" he murmurs, taking another step towards her as he attempts to straighten out his over-tunic and wipe the dust from his breeches.

"Don't you _love_ me, sir!" she sniffs, crossing her arms.

"I ain't," he grins. "Vanora, _love_, do you want to go get some grub? Last I heard, you haven't eaten all day. And we can't have some slip of girl like yourself starving away. It just wouldn't be right," he finishes, reaching out a hand to her.

"This doesn't fix anything," she says grimly, though her mouth begins twitching with the beginnings of a smile as she brushes away his hand. "But it's a start."

"That's all I need," he chuckles with a loud laugh as they leave the infirmary room, the hoots, hollers and whistles of appreciation of the other knights shouted in their wake.

* * *

"What in the gods is wrong with you?" Tristan murmurs, finishing off his tankard of ale and giving Dagonet a sideways glance as the big knight slams his own down on the table and goes back to holding his head in his hands. The yard of the tavern proves rather empty this night, most likely on account of the rain that has only just now stopped. 

"Why would you care?" Dagonet sniffs, his warm blue eyes red with what looks to be tears as he looks up at the other knight.

"You'd be surprised. Not to mention you're quite the contented drunk most always."

"By the Gods!" Dagonet groans, snatching another tankard of ale out of Brangaine's hands before she even has time to set it down. The barmaid raises a questioning eyebrow, to which Tristan only shrugs as he slides her a few coins.

"Don't worry about him," he snorts, dark eyes flitting over her figure.

"I ain't, mate," she shrugs with a grin, palming the coins. "Just glad to see some of you made it back without any injury," she sniffs.

"Of…course," he replies.

"Anything else? Especially for that 'un? Looks like he'll need a bit 'o liquid courage."

"Yeah. More of the usual, though he'll be fine…"

"The hell I will!" Dagonet counters.

"Alrighty then," she sighs, moving away from them and to the next table as Tristan nurses his drink. "You know Bors'll be alright," he begins after a while. "I believe Vanora's seeing to that when I checked on him…"

"Well, you tell him to be careful with all the _seeing to_ he gets!" Dagonet retorts, voice falling. "He doesn't want to see himself in a pickle he can't get out of."

"Pardon?" Tristan replies, visibly taken aback by Dagonet's increasingly melancholic slurring.

"Heraniae's…oh, by the gods! She's…well…p-pregnant!" Dagonet sighs. "I-I'm going to be a…a…a father!" he continues, shoulders slumping as he leans back against the wall, taking deep gulps of breath.

"Oh," Tristan replies easily, his lack of surprise causing Dagonet to narrow his eyes at him.

"What do you mean 'Oh!' You…you didn't know about this, did you? Why in the hell didn't you tell me? What the bloody hell is wrong with you! " Dagonet begins, sitting up straight, his body going deathly still. "I thought we were mates! Friends, even!"

"Get a hold of yourself," Tristan counters, eyes flashing with annoyance. "We are…mates," he murmurs uncomfortably. "'Friends,' erhm, as you call it. But she came to me about a fortnight ago. She was scared…"

"Of what!" Dagonet bellows, causing the other patrons around them to begin staring. Tristan gives them all the once over, his unyielding gaze immediately causing them to go back to what they were doing, actively ignoring the two knights in the corner.

"I think she was worried about _this_" the scout continues with a curt nod. "Your current state certainly doesn't prove comforting."

"Yeah, so she went to you first!" Dagonet snarls.

"Jealousy's an ugly thing," Tristan warns.

"You don't say!"

"I do say," Tristan warns again, voice dropping to deadly calm. "It took a lot of courage for her to seek me out, especially considering she doesn't like me much…"

"Right," Dagonet mutters.

"And," Tristan continues, ignoring Dagonet's comment, "She did it because…erhm…she thinks I know you…well, the best. At least that's what she relayed."

"So she's scared of me?" Dagonet says, a terrified look coming to his face. Tristan finds he's now beginning to feel sorry for him rather than annoyed.

"Not _of _you. More…uh…of the…situation," he counters awkwardly. "She worries that…things will change."

"Of course they will!"

"That they will change for the worst, you frellin' idiot," Tristan mutters, rolling his eyes. Women. It's why he refuses to tie himself down to one for an extended period time. Things of this sort causes any sort of relationship to be completely out of the question. If this did this to Dagonet, the gods only knew what it could do to him.

"It _will_ be difficult. But not in a bad sort way, I guess," Dagonet shrugs.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because she told you.

"Shouldn't you be telling _her?_"

"Well…uh…I think so."

"Yeah, you _think so?_" Tristan snorts. "I'm a knight, as terrible as that may be, not a messenger! Of course you should tell her!"

"Well…"

"Son of a whore," Tristan grumbles. "Look!" he says more loudly, shrugging his shoulders in annoyance, "You need to go and settle this right now. It's simple…"

"But the…baby."

"Aye? So you can't marry, at least not according the supposedly Roman customs. You have your own. And her family has money and the means…"

"Her father despises me."

"But her brothers don't. All three of them are some of the few of the cursed Romans who don't go out of their way to make our lives a living hell. Heck, the oldest one's wife isn't such a bad sort. I wouldn't to so far as to say they're our mates, but they adore her and by extension, don't hate you. Unless you continue to act like the bloody fool you are now. You two certainly aren't the dumbest of this bunch. I'm sure you'll be the decent sort of, uh, parents, with her brothers decent sort of uncles, as they call it." Tristan then takes a long drink, grousing about "idiots and the women who tup them." Or at least that's what Dagonet thinks he can make out. Silence settles between them as he contemplates this information.

"And when did you get so insightful?" Dagonet suddenly says with a drunken grin.

"When imbeciles like yourself and the mother of your future child got to be so foolish," Tristan lightly retorts.

"So it is," Dagonet slurs. "Tristan," he suddenly beams. "I'm going to be a father. _A father!_"

"You don't say," Tristan snorts, though he does raise his tankard in toast to the child of his best mate.

**

* * *

A/N: **Man, oh man, sorry that update took so long. Life's been busy and my job has been ridiculous (which probably explains why I'm looking for a new one!). Anyway, I'll try to update soon, but I'm going on vacation in a couple of weeks, to London of all places. Hopefully, being there will give me some inspiration. I will be, afterall, on Arthur's home turf in a way. 


	13. The Fickleness of Fate

_In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane, donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es: quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris. _

By the sweat of your face will you eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken. For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

**-Genesis 3:19 **

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Villagers telling of the infringement of Woads, the order to go investigate, a simple patrol of 40-odd knights and soldiers riding the west on the south side of the wall at dawn. The incursion is peculiar in and of itself, considering it's the end of January. The earth, like the season, proves frozen and cold, usually signaling no attacks at least until the first thaw. But something is pushing the Blue Devils south and they must be dealt with. Which is why he's standing here now, in the field of dying grass covered over by icy and newly bloody snow, the sky clear and blue despite the biting wind whipping around them. They are outnumbered three to one as he yells at the top of his lungs for his comrade to dodge the Woad's sword. But it is too late, for it embeds itself into Amhar's thigh. The screams and shouts of the chaos surrounding him fade to a dull roar as the rage of battle courses through his veins anew, like some bewitching brew of the forbidden ancient goddess Hecate. 

_"Amhar!_" Arthur bellows, eyes going wide at the gush of blood that springs from the soldier's leg as a result the enemy's sword. Swinging his own sword in a wide arc, Arthur barely has time to register the fiery-haired Woad woman to his side crumbling to ground in a hiss of blood and flesh. But not before she pulls him down from his mount, her impossibly sharp dagger slicing through the strap of his greave and leaving a wicked slash on his calf. The burning sting is ignored as he clambers up from the ground and fights his way deeper into the melee.

"Cador!" he screams to his page behind him, "Fall back!" But the young soldier ignores him, a grim look set on his face as he rides forward. Cador plunges ahead and battles his way to Amhar, who's scored a vicious hit to his opponent's arm. But he's loosing blood fast and is still faltering from the fall he took from his horse as a result. As the Woad spins around, his short sword clangs on the soldier's cuirass. It would be a deadly blow if it were a bit to left, below the side straps of the armor. But even in his state, Amhar is fast. His dark eyes narrow in concentration as he slides out of range at the last moment. Sword sinking into the Woad's shoulder with his last efforts, he's satisfied as his enemy's scream of pain fills his ears. But the ground's coming up fast to meet him as he falls to his knees, chest heaving with exertion. Cador gallops up behind the duo, yanking his dagger from its sheath and flinging it into the Woad's back, even as he next hurls his _pilum_ into the throat of another Woad, who immediately drops the notched arrow he's trained on Amhar. Panting, the page struggles to pull his fellow soldier up onto his mount, half dragging, half riding with him to the outskirts of the fight.

"Jesus!" Cador hisses, eyes going wide at blood now also pouring from Amhar's side as he dismounts to attend to him. Suddenly hearing a gurgle of pain above him, he jerks his head up just in time to see Agravaine withdraw his war hammer as the Woad pitches face forward into the snow, his blood dirtying the white of it.

"Careful. We wouldn't want you killed, now would we?" Agravaine chuckles darkly. Looking past the page, the knight's face goes grim as he takes in Amhar's state. "Tie off his leg or he'll bleed to death," he nods curtly before he spurs his black stallion on and plunges back into the battle. Cador unstraps his sword belt, leaning Amhar against a tree and doing as he is told.

"You'll be fine?" he asks of his charge as Dagonet rides up to them, dismounting and quickly helping him move Amhar further away from the conflict. The injured soldier nods his head, struggling to concentrate, no words coming from his mouth, his eyes wide and unfocused.

Turning away from that scene, Arthur stabs a man in the gullet with the arrowhead end of a broken arrow shaft, then dropping to the ground and retrieving a an abandoned short-sword. Watching as Lancelot gives another Woad a deadly shave with a blithely executed double sword move, he flings his extra weapon into the stomach of another enemy about to deal the death blow to a Briton named Ermind, the soldier's brother Dywel shaking his weapon in thanks as he rushes forward to complete the job.

"How many more, you reckon?" Arthur hears a voice casually rasp at his back.

"A two dozen to three, maybe?" he answers to Jols as his sword clangs against the Woad's in front of him. The man screams angrily as he tries to disarm the young captain, but Arthur ducks his swipe, dropping down and literally cutting his enemy out from under him. Plunging his weapon downwards, he finishes the grisly task.

"Some serious injuries we've got," Jols grumbles, shooting off an arrow at the Woad woman engaging Galahad. Watching listlessly as she falls to ground and Galahad swings around to score a hit on the man to his back, he mutters, "Palamedes and Riwallawn, arrowed. Gareth's bleeding out."

"Amhar looks worse for wear, Peredur and Ermind rendered injured…" Arthur retorts, jumping as he hears Bors' tell-tale war cry. The broad knight wrecks bloody havoc with his knuckle dusters as jumps into the skirmish yet again, drawing upon his seemingly infinite reserves of strength. Woads fall left and right, those lucky enough to escape the initial onslaught immediately cut down by the graceful arcs of Tristan's sword. The scout's face is impassive, save for the glitter of his impossibly dark eyes. His blade arcs upon the air, slicing through flesh and bone as it elegantly spins to and fro. Weapon and wielder are as one, the dance beautiful despite, or even because of its grim result. So contrary yet superbly fitting; Arthur almost wishes he isn't forced to look away from this lethal demonstration, but he must secure his life against his new opponent now charging him. "So many…" he murmurs.

"Never underestimate the enemy," Jols counters, out of arrows. Dropping his bow as he draws his gladius, he runs through a Woad in front of him with nary a glance. Looking further beyond, he frowns at the remaining sea of Blue Devils beginning to surround Gawain and Galahad as they fight back to back. As Galahad hurls off a string of small daggers, each hitting their lethal mark, Gawain follows with a broad sweep of his mace. The alternating displays of grace and strength are executed so rapidly that Jols almost feels sorry for the Woads falling at their feet. Almost. That is until he makes out a wounded Peredur lying on the ground between them._ Well, we'll have to remedy that situation now won't we?_ he muses as he battles his way through to the brawl, twirling his sword in anticipation of more bloodletting.

* * *

It is the tangy smell of salt upon the air is what snaps him awake, his dark eyes jolting open. He can feel the supple green grass beneath his toes, the warm wind upon his back, hear the rustle of the golden leaves on the trees surrounding him. All of it bolder and more vivid than humanly possible. And then he sees it, brighter than he's ever found himself blessed to witness; the sun swiftly rising, that bright star splitting open the blue canopy of the world as the brilliant stars of night fade into oblivion. Taking a deep breath, he lets the sweet air wash over him, reveling in the sound of the waves crashing upon those startlingly familiar white cliffs. He grew up on these eastern shores of Britannia overlooking the continent, the son of an old Caledonian legionnaire and his equally native wife. Heartbroken when he was forced to leave it for his time in army, he swore he would come back sometime. And now he has kept his promise. Turning away from the great waves, Amhar sees them standing on the horizon; his ancestors of old, ready to greet him at this end of days. 

His lips frantically move, noise gurgling out from between them, a mixture silent prayer and his native tongue. Eyes going wide as he struggles for breath, he attempts to focus on the scene before him. But it's steadily falling into shifting darkness. He can only make out the distant but frantic yells of his name, Cador shaking him, begging him to stay. But it does not matter now. The others call to him and he may no longer deny their summons. For the pain has drifted away, unspeakable peace filling the void. Suddenly his head falls forward as his chest stills, eyes glassy and seeing no more of this earth.

"It is done," Dagonet murmurs, closing Amhar's eyelids with a solemn sweep of his hand.

"You cannot mean that he is…" Cador retorts with a strangled cry.

"He is with us no more."

_"NO!"_

"Death spares no man eventually," Dagonet intones, eyes blinking rapidly as he holds back his own tears. It is easy to forget Cador's only has sixteen to seasons to him until he sees the sort of effect this is having on him. The page is literally shivering with shock, face as white as the snow, his hands still on Amhar's shoulders and attempting to shake him awake. "Why don't you go get the captain…" Dagonet contines.

"'Tis no need. He just needs a bit of mending!"

"Cador…"

"Surely just a few stitches!"

"_Cador_," Arthur's voice demands behind him. Taking his page by the shoulders and firmly pulling him to his feet as he actively avoids looking at Amhar, he orders, "I seemed to have lost my mare in the fray. Maybe you may locate her?" Cador eyes flit from his comrade's corpse to his captain's gaze, their haunted, empty look causing Arthur to swallow hard. "We won't be able to take him if I can't find my horse," the he whispers into his page's ear as he releases him, lightly pushing him forward away from the scene. Cador nods fervently, blindly stumbling off into the body-littered field.

"I should…keep an eye on him," Lancelot mutters, looking away from the body with a deep sigh and leading his own horse away as he follows the young soldier. Arthur barely nods in reply, tossing away his sword and kneeling before the tree where his dear friend rests in that dreadfully permanent sleep. Touching a hand to Amhar's cheek, he lowers his head, muttering a prayer of absolution over him. It will have to do in absence of a priest at the present.

"Cut the bloodline in his thigh. The arrows in his side certainly didn't help. Bled out to death," Dagonet rumbles, removing Amhar's cloak as well as his own. "It was quick," he continues as he begins to wrap the body in the cloaks. Arthur immediately joins in his actions, face stony save the steady twitch of his lip and brightness of his eyes, his breath coming in shallow, quick bursts.

"You need not do this…"

"I must help prepare him," Arthur retorts flatly, jerking his head up and giving the big knight an inscrutable stare as he begins draping his own cloak around the body. Dagonet gives a silent nod. He's learned long ago that each person deals with death in their own way. Better to allow them to come to it with their own terms.

"Bloody hell," Bors groans as he comes upon the sight, looking as though he's about to be sick. A bandaged-about-the-stomach Gareth leans on him for support. They are followed by Gawain and Galahad, carrying a half-awake and still steadily bleeding Peredur between them. Dywel rides up behind the group, leading his brother's horse, Ermind already lashed to it on account of a broken leg that could result of him otherwise falling off it on the journey back. Tristan can be seen in the distance hauling Palamedes onto his mount, while Bedivere attends to a Briton named Riwallawn who still lies crumpled upon the ground. Other knights and soldiers venture about the field, looking for additional injured allies as well as any abandoned weapons and horses.

"We shall hang the black banner from the Imperial standard for the journey back," Arthur calls out suddenly as he rises from the ground. "In honor of him," he continues, voice breaking on the last word at the rest of the troop surrounding him. They nod in silent reply. Some make the sign of the cross, while others mutter their own blessings in their native tongue as Arthur and Dagonet walk past the line, the body carried between them. Raising it, they place it on Amhar's horse, lashing it to the snorting animal that skitters to and fro, as though it knows of what's come to pass on this dark day.

"While we have killed the bulk of the enemy for now, we must stay on our guard on the road back," Arthur continues after finishing his task. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he wills himself to remain calm. "Now is not the time for rashness or wrong-headed revenge. We must all make it back…alive," he continues, voice sounding falsely impassive. "It would be what he would want, after all."

* * *

"As we do in life, so do we care for them in death," Ceridwen murmurs as she finishes polishing Amhar's armor. Tightening the straps so that his cuirass stays in place, she finishes the final steps of preparing his body for burial. Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, the Maeve struggles to stop her shivering as she approaches. Biting back a sneeze at the smell of the combination of the strong soap used for the preparation and smoky incense filling the impossibly chilly room reserved for the storage of bodies, she pins back the legionnaire's scarlet cape with new golden brooch reserved for such grim occasions. As she backs away, four of the infirmary attendants approach. Spreading an almost impossibly thin but beautifully woven white shroud between them, they place it gently over the length of the body, giving one final bow as they leave, followed by Maeve and Ceridwen. 

"Since he is Christian," the old woman breathes, "The priests will carry him to the church and hold vigil overnight, saying whatever chants they say with their prayer beads and such. We shall bury him in morning. Normally, it would have happened sooner, but he died on at the end of the week. They apparently cannot commit him to the earth until the end of their Sabbath."

"Get some rest," she continues, as they make their way back to their quarters, the night cloudy and moonless over them. "You will need it for tomorrow."

* * *

The early morning proves almost mockingly beautiful, the cold air fresh and still, the new snowfall from the night before bathing the entire citadel in crystal white. There has not been a death in the battlefield for any of the soldiers and knights from the citadel for the last few years. And so it appears that most everyone has turned out for the final procession of Amhar from the church to the cemetery. 

Constinian, the _Legatus Legionis_ or commander of the citadel rides at the head of the convoy. Arthur rides stiffly in his wake pulling along Amhar's empty horse with him. He is flanked by Cai and Bedivere, Cai's father Ectorian behind them. Jols rides somberly to the left of the flower draped funeral cart, with Cador to the right of it. The young legionnaire sits deathly still in his saddle, too drained to bother wiping away the silent tears trailing down his flushed cheeks. And while the rest of the knights were not allowed to attend to main liturgy on account of their pagan status, they meet their fellow company of Briton soldiers at the church doorway. Falling silently into position behind the cart, all ride together creating a mixed company of men, the divisions between Sarmatian and Briton forgotten for today. Behind them ride various Roman soldiers who knew Amhar, while behind them ride Ceridwen, Maeve, Vanora, Heraniae and Leonius. They are followed by the rest of the mounted civilians, with those on foot last in line.

"_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris_," Bishop Vitus calls out, blessing the coffin for one final time as it's lowered into the ground at the cemetery. _Remember, man, thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return._ The words echo in Arthur's head as the thin, wan-looking priest nods to him. Stepping forward he clears his throat, hands clasped together in front him so as to stop their shaking.

"No words I may say do justice to Amhar, the man or the memory," he begins, voice scratchy but strong. "I may speak of him being cut down too soon, how he proved on his way to becoming a great soldier, how he would have grown to a great commander, had he lived." Murmurs of agreement spread through the company of knights and soldiers. "I may even expound of his sense of kinship with both Briton and Sarmatian, Roman and native, soldier, knight and civilian. Or of his friendship with those blessed enough to find him among one of their chosen comrades. But he would rail against that sort of paralyzing grief. For as a citizen of action, he lacked patience for such lethargies." Glancing up he sees Cador's head bowed next to Cai's, Cador nodding vigorously as he sniffs back his tears at whatever words of apparent comfort Cai whispers to him. Arthur offers a silent prayer of strength for his page, even as he steels himself to continue.

"But all of us prove beyond familiar those concepts. As you know, Amhar was not one to waste time. Patience may be a virtue, but in the less epic sorts of things, it flowed just beyond his reach. Especially when it came to his tolerance for waiting for his refilled tankard over at the taverns," he breathes, pursing his lips with a distant grin. A murmur of approval comes from the knights and soldiers, some even openly smiling at the memory. "In the end," Arthur continues, voice dropping, "Truth proves relative to each how man perceives it. And such is how each of us will choose to remember him. There is but one thing remaining infallible when it comes to our fallen comrade; while his body will be committed to earth today, Amhar's soul will never die. It will never cease to exist in memory. Thus is the heart of a true soldier, a virtuous man, most importantly, a _friend_. Accordingly, let us from this day preserve that legacy."

As Arthur gives the Roman salute, his final words are met with a loud buzz of reply from the company. Suddenly Bors shouts his usual war cry, others in the company immediately following. Their shouts ring clearly in the air despite the scowl of utter disdain glared their direction by Vitus. Do these heathens not know a Christian funeral when they see one?

Arching his eyebrow at the old bishop in warning, Arthur allows the company to continue until it subsides. _"Homo, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris_," he murmurs again as he then reaches down to take some of the freshly turned earth meant to bury the fallen soldier. Tossing it into upon the coffin in the grave, he moves forward in the line. The rest company follows in his stead; assembling behind him, each take a bit of the earth and repeat the gesture, murmuring their own words of farewell. When this task is done, Arthur pulls Amhar's sword from his own scabbard. Raising it to the sky in salute, he declares with a raw voice "Remember Amhar, lest he be forgotten. For we shall carry him with us until these end of days."

* * *

"My, what a quiet room," Lancelot snorts uneasily almost to himself as he takes a long drink of his ale. "You'd think someone had died," he sniffs forlornly. 

"Forgive him, for he does not know how else to manage all of this," Dagonet murmurs to the group of soldiers sitting across from, even as he squeezes Lancelot's shoulder in reassurance. All silently nod in reply, they also too worn out to do much of anything else. After the final rites, the entire company has gathered in one of the taverns, their large number sending the rest of the patrons scattering out into the dusk. The barmaids don't mind it all; plenty of coin will be spent on the liquid courage required to forget the grim circumstances of this gathering.

"A bloody shame," Bors bellows as he finishes off the contents of his tankard and slams it down on the table. Vanora rolls her eyes at his loudness, though she nods in agreement, shifting to get more comfortable on the bench next to him. "Chin up, love," he snorts, hand squeezing hers in reassurance as she leans into him. Her own eyes are red from crying; while Amhar did not prove her greatest friend, he still was close as any of the men in the company are.

"To say the least," Arthur slurs. Sitting across from Bors, he motions for another cup of the heavy ale.

"Someone should keep an eye on that one," Vanora mumbles, looking in the direction of Cador sitting at a table on the other side of the courtyard. Shoulders slumped and eyes cast downward, he emptily stares into his tankard. Not even the numerous free drinks put in front of him by one of the sympathetic but fetching barmaids cause him look up.

"He will be looked after," Arthur replies slowly, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing Bedivere and Cai seated across from Cador. "Those two have been at his back since…it passed."

"Whatever you say, cap'n," Bors breathes with a loose salute. "All I'm wonderin' is if he'll ever be the same. I ain't lost no one yet, unless you include me family being so far away back home," he continues evenly. "But you never know how loosin' a best mate can turn out. I know you know about that, what with your whole family situation. Not that I mean to be all cruel and such in dredgin' that up."

"I take no offense. And you have a valid point," Arthur replies with a nod, "This will hang over us for a while, as all such things do with time."

"Are ya always this philosophical?" Vanora questions with a grim chuckle.

"Apparently," Arthur retorts dismally.

"Oh, come now. I didn't mean in a terrible way," she sighs.

" Tis all in the occasion, not you," he replies, giving her a fleeting grin.

"So what of it now?" Bors volunteers a lengthy bout of silence.

"We press on," Arthur counters quickly. "Press on for the sake him. And of ourselves."

"Well then," Bors calls out, getting to his feet and raising his mug in toast, "To Amhar!"

"To Amhar," the entire company replies. And so they all drink to the memory of a friend and the hopefully brighter days ahead of them.

* * *

_Pilum_ – Throwing spear or lance commonly used in Roman times. Later pilum were created so that that iron blade would bend upon impact with metal, making its removal from a shield per say very difficult, rendering the shield unwieldy and ultimately unusable. 


	14. To Bend But Not Break

"Wake up, it is time."

Dagonet jumps in his chair as the voice snaps him out of his dreams. Nightmares more like. But those he blames on his general nervousness; it is not everyday one bears witness to his child coming into the world. Not to mentions groans of pain coming from the wooden door in front of him. Craning his neck to see around the crack of the open door, he sighs as it is quickly closed again, only the sight of the healers skittering to and fro.

It has been two months since Amhar's death. One month since Dagonet and Heraniae bound themselves to one another on an early spring morning, as witnessed by her older twin brothers (the youngest brother of the three unable to attend due to a previous journey to Londinium) as well as Bors and Tristan. Granted, it wasn't a true marriage, for knights were denied that right until after completing their service, but it proved as close as one could get. As he swore in front of the witnesses then, Dagonet breathes the promise to himself; in health and in sickness, in times of fortune and despair, he will be side by her side. The only thing stopping him at the moment is her birthing pains. They've begun almost a dozen hours before, judging from dim light of the dusk spilling in from the window above his head.

"Drink," Ceridwen's voice calls out again as she hands him a cup of cool water. "You may not wish to eat on account of your general worry, but you cannot meet your child while delirious with thirst," she continues, voice softening. Suddenly, the door flies open in front of them, Maeve and Vanora running out. One concerned look from both of them sends the old woman flying back into the room, Vanora following.

"What's the meanin' of that, you think?" Bors whispers, leaning against the doorframe of the entrance of Heraniae's quarters. Dagonet bites back a laugh at his cousin's scared tone, taking note of how the other knight refuses to take a seat. It's the first he's seen him positively terrified, these woman matters confounding him to the point of repressed panic. One would think _he's_ expecting a child.

"She's railing at everyone, 'tis all," Maeve mutters as she begins lighting the lanterns lining the walls of the chamber. Remembering the flying bowl that almost hit her in the head when she chastised Heraniae her for gripping her hand a bit too hard, she continues. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you. Unless you're the father of course," she nods in deference to Dagonet. "She's walking around now, trying to guide the baby out…"

"By the gods," Lancelot mumbles, eyes going wide at the idea of it. He worriedly runs a hand through his dark curls and scoots down lower in his chair, feet crossed carelessly upon the table into front of him. "She's certainly got a temper, to say the least. What ever possessed you to have a child by her?"

"That's my maid you're talking about," Dagonet warns.

"Maid? So hurling bowls at children's heads makes her the flower of the fort?"

"I'll hurl something else at you if you don't shut it!" Dagonet growls.

"My, you _are_ nervous," Maeve chuckles uneasily as he sighs in apologetic reply. The silence is suddenly broken by a scream of pain, which causes Dagonet to jump to his feet and stalk towards the door. Maeve rushes after him, tugging on his tunic in a vain effort to stop him, which only results in her being dragged along with him until he notices her. "It'll become worse before it gets better," she stutters quickly as he turns around and fixes her with a worried glare.

"And just how do you know this?" Lancelot asks with genuine surprise as he sits up.

"In training for a healer, so I've seen these about four times before," she replies shyly, going back to light the lanterns.

"Eh, she's right," Bors shrugs. "Me mum was most gentle creature you'd have ever set your eyes on…"

"Somehow I doubt that," Lancelot chuckles, only to quickly fall silent when Bors casts him a glare.

"As I was saying," he continues, clearing his throat, "You'd have sworn she were a monster from the very depths of the Dead when she went through the birthing of me younger sis. The only thing to do is wait. And pray the midwives don't eat you alive for daring to exist."

"May the gods never bless me with a child," Lancelot breathed. "For I would be a poor father if ever I saw one. No wonder Tristan fled at the first round of shrieks!"

"At least you know yourself," Dagonet counters, a hint of grin coming to his face as he makes his way back to his seat. "As for the scout, well, at least we know there's finally something he's not a master of."

"Women?" Lancelot drawls.

"The to contrary, mate. More of what happens to them when you're done with 'em!" Bors guffaws.

"Careful, there are children about," Lancelot chuckles, nodding towards Maeve, who has a confused look on her face. That is until another scream rends through the air. Letting out a ragged breath, Dagonet's about to get up again until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Steady on, mate," Bors murmurs. "It'll all work itself out."

* * *

"Just breathe!" Brangaine mutters, flinching as Heraniae squeezes her hand yet again. "How long will this go on?" she asks as Ceridwen wipes the expecting mother's brow. 

"I cannot say," Ceridwen replies flatly, though she bites her lip with worry. While birthings are certainly not easy, this one was beginning to go on for quite a long time, with no sign of the baby wishing to come out, Heraniae exhausted from walking around the room in circles in an attempt to coax out the baby. This would not do at all. But the only thing to do is wait.

And wait she does, even as the sun bursts over the horizon the next morning, the bright rays of it hitting her face and startling her awake from her quick nap. Stretching and cracking her rather aged frame, it takes her a while to realize the room is virtually silent. Jerking up from her seat, she frowns as Brangaine shoves a cup of hot mead to her, the young barmaid's hands trembling.

"Childbed fever," she whispers, blinking back tears.

"Come again?" Ceridwen creaks, the cup almost slipping out of her hand in barely repressed horror.

_"_Childbed fever…_Puerperal fever!"_ Brangaine retorts desperately, wringing her hands and looking at the floor. "F-forgive me…"

"Nothing to be sorry for," Ceridwen snorts, rushing over to Heraniae's side and ordering the other women to stoke the fire as hot as possible and prepare hot presses. Tossing some herbs into the pot of water on the hearth and breathing deeply as the medicinal steam begins filling the room, she quickly feels along Heraniae's stomach, sighing in relief as she detects the flutter of the unborn child. However, the mother is in a worse way; face reddened and sweating, her breath comes in shallow spurts as she struggles to shift into a comfortable position. Her screams of the birthing have stopped, for she's too exhausted and sick with fever to say much at this point. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep," Ceridwen mutters. "What happened?"

"The babe won't come out and somehow Heraniae's contracted the fever…the infection…"

"May kill her, especially if the babe dies in her. Her body will fight it, trying to destroy the supposed invasion of the child. Have you told Dagonet?"

"No, though he's wonderin' what's taking so long…"

"Good, good," she mutters. "No need to worry him yet," she replies wiping her bloody hands on her apron after checking the progress of Heraniae's dilation. "You haven't slept all night, have you?" Brangaine nods in reply. "Go, you deserve some rest. Without you, she may have died," the old healer continues, directing Brangaine to the door. "Remember though, don't tell him. We should be able to make her sweat out the fever, and all shall turn out well. Though if it comes to pass, we may have to cut the babe out."

"How will she survive such an operation?" Brangaine groans.

"I don't know. To choose between mother and child is a decision I hope I shall not have to make."

* * *

The baby is blue. Its breath does not come, even as Ceridwen attempts to breathe life into its tiny lungs yet again. Finally, there is a weak cry, though the sigh of relief from the women in the room all but drowns it out, the child shaking with cold even as her little face turns red with the heat of fever. 

"She's beautiful," Brangaine cries, reaching out to touch the little girl's finger. The undersized bundle in Ceridwen's arms contains a tuft tuft of dark blonde hair. And though her eyes have opened but once in the few hours she's lived in this world, they shine a deep blue sapphire, though that gleam is more the result of illness rather than natural luster.

"She burns," the older woman murmurs. "Like her mother," she nods to Heraniae, who lies glassy eyed in her bed, muttering of whatever hallucinations rack her fevered mind as another healer bathes her brow, forcing her to drink a concoction that should hopefully help fortify her. At least she will have to fight only the fever; there proved no need to cut out the child, for all held off on such a dangerous operation until the end. Thankfully, she finally came after a handful of agonizing hours. However, both were left barely alive, the same infection that gripped the mother passing onto the child, no doubt in the almost two day long process of bringing her into the world. "Pray to whatever God you pray to that neither fire lasts," Ceridwen continues. "Or there may be two fresh graves to dig on this terrible night. And even if that does not come to pass, neither may not last a week."

Even a week later, he still cannot believe it. While some were sorry it was not a son to carry on his name, it did not matter. Of course he could not raise her to fight with Arthur's troops, but he could still instill her with the way of his people; yes, she would be a fighter, if not in body, then in spirit. No man would take advantage of her or he would answer to him. If not to him, than to his brother knights. Loathe to any who dared cross his daughter's dangerous path. She was a Sarmatian. She was a Roman. She was of the best of both worlds, containing the strongest bloodlines in the known world.

If only she would live.

By the gods, if only her mother would live.

As he sits staring at his little girl in her bassinette, wishing to hold her, but forbidden from doing so on account of her illness, he grips Heraniae's hot hand. She sleeps now, her fever still raging, though they tell him it is about to break. Brangaine sits in the corner, silently sowing, moving every so often to see if mother and child still breathe. They do, though the child's breathe is shallow. Nodding to Dagonet, she returns back to her seat. She does not know how long it is until the knight nods off. But the sun has completely set below the horizon by then.

After some hours spent checking on her patients, she feels herself all too often fighting sleep. Leaving to get a healer for the next watch, she quickly returns. And that is when the sight before her causes her to fall into a dead faint, the other healer rushing to the infirmary.

* * *

Tears stream down Brangaine's reddened face as she remains crumbled in shock on the floor Heraniae's quarters, not bothering to turn around at the click of the opening door. Taking a deep breath, Ceridwen pushes enters, her breath hitching in her throat; Dagonet paces the room, clutching the child to him and rocking her back forth, Heraniae staring mutely at the wall as her body shakes with silent sobs. 

The loss of a child is always the worst hurt, not matter how times Ceridwen has witnessed such death.

"Dagonet," she murmurs, moving in front of him as he paces back to the middle of the room. "Dagonet," she repeats as she attempts to stop him in order to take the child from his arms. "It is done," she whispers. "She is at peace." At her last words, he suddenly looks up, eyes red, face tear-streaked as she takes his little girl from him. "Forgive me," she begs.

"T-there is no one at fault," Heraniae breathes, the sound of her voice causing Dagonet to immediately go to her side. "We cannot prevent God's design," she continues. "What defense do we have against what he wills?" she moans, voice breaking and sobs becoming louder as Dagonet lies down next to her, pulling her into a hard embrace. Stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort, he rocks her back and forth, his grief becoming audible as well despite his efforts. Willing herself to remain steadfast, Ceridwen begins to leave.

"Please," she hears a weak voice call out. "May I…may I hold her. For one…last time?" Wordlessly the healer moves towards the bed, gently placing the child in her mother's arms.

"I will be outside when you are ready," she promises, to which the couple simply nods. As she's about to exit, she remembers one question she must ask, as painful as it may be.

"Have you named her? For the…last rites?"

"Tacita," Heraniae murmurs. "The Silent One."

Ceridwen does not bother to wipe away the tears falling down her cheeks as she closes the door silently behind her.

* * *

The mass was small, the burial itself attended by the mother's family as well as a small group of knights and Arthur but two days later. And so it is some three weeks later Ceridwen finds Dagonet silently standing in front of the marker, as he has done every single evening since the burial. As always, she places a new bouquet of flowers on growing group at the foot of the grave. 

"Will she live?" he utters, not bothering to look at her. The routine has not varied; she meets him here everyday at this same hour in order to relay the progress of Heraniae's health.

"She is in full recovery now, the infection gone."

"Good. At least she will live."

"Physically," she counters. Silence falls between them as usual, signaling the conversation is at end. Slipping away, she heads to the edge of the graveyard to stand with Bors, Tristan and Lancelot. Rain or shine, the three have stood guard at the same spot as he undertakes this daily ritual. Though they do not speak of it, they know it serves to ensure he does nothing rash. Such is the silent agreement among all the knights; hence Dagonet never finds himself alone, not matter how much he insists on the painful solitude.

"When do you think the grief will lessen?" she whispers.

"Can't say," Bors retorts uncertainly. "He lost his older brother when he was a but a boy to some bloody skirmish between our tribe and a wandering band of Huns. Then 'round the same time, me younger sis died when but a wee babe of the Ague. Well, he took it quite hard…as did I," Bors sniffs. "But, uh," he continues, collecting himself, "I ain't never seen 'im like this."

"'Tis different," Tristan shrugs as he continues drawing random figures in the dirt with the tip of a fallen branch he's picked up.

"His own blood, born of him," Lancelot mumbles. "A part of you never…forgets it."

"Well, if he keeps this up, he'll certainly find 'imself in a dark place he can't crawl out of. In his mind, at least," Bors grouses worriedly.

"We all cope by our own means," Tristan replies thoughtfully.

"Let us hope the coping doesn't destroy him," Lancelot sighs.

"Here, here," Bors raggedly breathes.

* * *

"I lost four children before Malmuira came along, proving unable to have any more after her." Ceridwen sighs as she places yet another arrangement of flowers at the grave. He looks up at her, surprised at additional conversation after their usual exchange is done. Such as it's been for the last two months or so. "And then I lost my Malmuira as she brought Maeve into the world, though I think Jols proved far more openly devastated at it all," she continues curtly. "Not that I did not love my only child. But that rather overwhelming turn of fate forced me to focus on other things rather than my grief. Such are the sacrifices we make." 

"However, I tell you this," she says quietly as she wipes a bit of dust off the simple wooden marker and begins rearranging the bouquets of flowers lying in front of it. "Nothing burns so much as the loss of the first child. A hole in the heart does not even begin to describe it. So bear no shame in your grief, dear knight."

Dagonet's shoulders unexpectedly heave, his breathing quickening as she steps away. And suddenly he falls his knees, his hands covering his face as the hushed sounds of his sorrow punctuate the air. She swallows hard, looking away as his grief steadily climbs into muffled wails, his body shaking with his efforts.

After a seemingly infinite time in the uncomfortable virtual silence, she moves towards him, placing both hands on his shoulders. He reaches up, suddenly grasping her hand in his and pulling her down to sit next to him, to which she easily obliges, crossing her legs to get more comfortable. Accordingly they sit, letting the stillness wash over them, save for the occasional echo of his wracking sobs.

Watching as the sun sinks behind the distant green mountains and wrapping her cloak tighter about her to fight the descending cold, she's realizes all has fallen silent. Looking over, she sees he sits with knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as he stares mutely at the grave; a broken-hearted boy. Giving no thought to what she does, she reaches out. Pulling him to her into a tight embrace, she takes note that he doesn't fight it, after a while lying back and placing his head in her lap so that he still faces the marker. And thus they remain as such, a surrogate mother and son, at least for the time being.

* * *

She's startled awake by gentle rocking, her hand automatically going to the dagger sheathed at her waist until she recognizes the murmur of the quiet voice. 

"He needs to get to bed," Tristan intones, taking a hand off her shoulder. An unreadable expression comes to his face as his eyes momentarily flicker to the marker in front of them. Dagonet still lies in her lap, his breathing hitching as though he weeps even in his sleep. Looking above her, Ceridwen takes note of the starry sky, attempting to calculate the time.

"Almost past the mid night," Lancelot tosses out. "We…they were concerned for him," he nods to Dagonet.

"Much thanks," she sighs, torn between getting to her feet or disturbing the sleeping knight.

"His wife needs him," Bors adds, answering her own question as he rouses Dagonet. The big knight sleepily opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings as Bors helps him stagger to his feet.

"Not quite as young as I used to be," she breathes, feeling her bones reply sluggishly as Tristan pulls her to her feet. He simply nods in reply, dark eyes trained on Dagonet who's already begun to leave, wandering blindly out of the cemetery.

"I'll ensure he returns back," Bors quickly says moving to catch up with him as they begin heading towards the main part of the citadel. Moving into the great courtyard of the fort, the party makes their way to Ceridwen's quarters in silence.

"He will need looking after," she suddenly says, turning to face them. Dagonet hangs back, slumped against the inner courtyard wall. Half-asleep and no doubt lost in his own thoughts, he appears oblivious to everything else around him.

"He will not break," Tristan retorts enigmatically as Lancelot strolls ahead of them both. "We all bend now and then, but to break is not the way of our people, ensuring survival wherever we may."

"Then we understand each other." Tristan simply nods in reply, and with a word of thanks, she leaves, heading up to the stairs. He watches until the light is extinguished in her window, then turning away.

"Home," he murmurs to Dagonet, clasping him about the shoulder as they make their way to Heraniae's quarters.

"Home," Dagonet repeats, his voice stronger than Tristan recalls it's been in the last few weeks.

* * *

"Much thanks," she breathes as Dagonet climbs into bed. Wordlessly, he pulls her close to him, cradling her in his arms. Even in the dim candlelight, he can see her red, tear-stained face. Feeling how her heart races at her wrist, he pulls her even nearer, burying his head in her hair, beginning to rock her gently as her shallow breathing fills the air. Taking her hand, he grins slightly as her fingers automatically lace with his. 

"_In health and in sickness_," he intones, kissing her temple.

"_In times of fortune and despair_," she breathes, bringing his hand to her lips and blessing it with a chaste kiss.

The hole their hearts gradually begins to mend.


End file.
